


Pride

by BabyGecko



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Archie is a Good friend (not that important tho), Asexual Jughead, Betty and Jughead: deduction and seduction, Boy just doesn't want to get frisky, Cheryl deserves better, Lots of Secrets, Maple Syrup Land Grab, Multi, Mystery, Previous Generation included, Shady Riverdale, Two Sleuthers Sleuthing, but is anyone surprised, like seriously why is that such an issue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2018-11-28 13:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11418981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyGecko/pseuds/BabyGecko
Summary: Following her taboo summer affair, a stranger returns to Riverdale three years later. Her presence unravels the web of secrets and lies that were the foundation the newest generations of the poisonous town had been built upon. After the sordid details had been left buried in the depths of time, Halona Ridgemount will be unearthing more than anyone had been bargaining for.Sequel to Shame.





	1. The Wrong Man

It was pointless. All of it. 

Jughead lent back in the cracked red vinyl seat of the booth at Pop’s, basking in the morning sunlight and in the unwavering optimism of the Andrews family. The damn determination on their faces was near unbearable, as Mary went over his father’s situation. They’d ordered coffee to help ease the mood, he guessed, but it remained untouched, now stone cold from the dull progression of time. 

It was still a nice gesture, though. Didn’t the saying go ‘It’s the thought that counts’? 

Mary’s eyes were constantly flicking between apologetically looking at Jughead, scanning over the files she’d brought with her, and meeting her son’s concerned eyes with attempted reassurance. Key word there being ‘attempted’. She knew as well as he did that it was a hopeless case, that fact being more and more evident with each factor against FP Jones that she revealed. 

“Don’t forget that pesky confession,” Jughead said dryly, the words almost getting caught in his throat from how constricted it’d become. Despite the pathetic comedic tone, nobody took it as a joke. 

He could feel Archie tense beside him. Archie had never been the kind of guy to sit through an impossible situation without getting at least a little bit restless. Some glorious, dumb part of his mentality that there was no unsolvable situation that a little bit of effort couldn’t fix. For a brief moment, his mind drifted back to when he’d naively dubbed Polly’s situation as a “true Gordian knot”, and nearly snorted out loud. In comparison, her knot seemed to equate more to one of the Adventure Scout knots Doily was so fond of. 

It took him a second to realise that Mary was looking at him expectantly, having shared the bottomless pit that his father had dug himself into, and he didn’t really know what to say. How did one react appropriately to the utter hopeless fate of a family member? It seemed like no one in this town knew anymore. First with the Blossoms and Jason, then with Betty and Polly, Veronica and her father, it seemed very much like the debate his novel had been founded upon was very evidently one sided. Was Riverdale a place of good or a place of evil? Who was he kidding. The whole damned town was just a rotted shell of what it used to be, what it should’ve been, what everyone still tried to pretend it was.

The silence hung lifeless in the air. 

“Well,” Jughead started, puffing his cheeks out. “At least he’s an honest murderer.” A wry smile had been thrown in as a last ditch attempt at another comedic moment, though everyone knew that it wasn’t the day humour. It wasn’t really the month, heck, the year for humour. Least so from him. What could he say, it was a talent. Or, more aptly named, a faulty defense and coping mechanism.

Unsurprisingly, his one-liner didn’t help lift the mood.

Mary scanned over her files for the umpteenth time, sensibly manicured nail hovering just over the page filled with bleak text.  
“Oh!” she exclaimed, perhaps a little more excited or hopeful than was necessary. “Would either of you know of a Halona Ridgemount?”

Cold nausea hit Jughead’s stomach unforgivingly. He could feel both pairs of warm brown eyes upon him, but for a brief second, they morphed into the face his father had adored, the beautiful enigma who had invited him to have a milkshake with her just that one time before she faded into oblivion. There was no way Mary could know about her. His father never spoke about her. He never could. 

“W-What did you just say?” he asked slowly, his voice faltering slightly. 

Mary neatly laced her fingers together and gently rested them upon the files. Concern etched her features at his response, clearly not the reaction she’d expected.

“She’s listed as your father’s one phone call.” 

xxxx

“You called her, you fucking called her!” Jughead snapped at his father, fingers clenching around the cell bars. “What on earth possessed you to do that, Dad?”   
The aforementioned man had opted to stare at the stained patch of wall in front of him rather than to look his son in the eye. 

It had been approximately seventeen minutes since Jughead had found out that none other than Halona Ridgemount, FP’s former sort-of-girlfriend, had been his only call. 

His long, nimble fingers absentmindedly wove a thin, red ribbon between them, over and over and over again, weaving, unravelling. The imagery could almost be compared to a convicted man fiddling with a beloved rosary in a painful last attempt at St Peter’s gates. 

A silence fell over the two of them as FP chose to leave Jughead’s accusations unanswered. His entire form was stilled, frozen in place. Only the constant movement of ribbon threading through his fingers indicated any sort of life in the man.   
Jughead scrubbed the back of his hand over his face.

“Jesus, Dad, which part of ‘no communication’ did you get stuck on? And what did you think that calling her would do?” 

He let his arms fall, defeated, to his side, after gesticulating his argument. A small part of him thought that maybe movement would snap his dad out of whatever illusion he was stuck in, but sure enough, like most thoughts he had concerning his dad, it died almost instantly.

“Dad,” he said, the exasperation in is tone obvious. “Calling her is just dragging her into this whole mess.”  
“I have the right to call whoever I like, Jug, at least give me that-"

“No, Dad, you lost that right the moment you decided to murder a kid.”  
He stopped for a moment, watching how his father’s breath hitched, how he shifted, how he suddenly tore his eyes away from that damned, stained spot on the wall.

He frowned.

“Why did you do it?” he asked quietly, closely observing his father’s response. Was there the chance...even the smallest chance?  
FP glared, at least tried to. The slight wobble of the lip gave it away.

“I told you, I have the right-”

“No, not about phoning her.” Jughead leant forward so that his nose was practically brushing the cool steel of the jail cell’s bars. He locked eyes with his father, refusing to let FP avert his eyes.   
“Why did you kill Jason?” A spike of vindictive pleasure ran through his body when he heard just how chillingly calm his voice was. 

The way FP stiffened didn’t go unnoticed. 

And then, when he started to talk, reciting his story about his plan for Jason, Jughead felt his stomach curl, a similar cold nausea to what he’d felt that morning. He hadn’t done it. He hadn’t murdered a kid in cold blood. FP Jones was know for his lack of eloquence, and he always knew when his dad was lying anyway. He was lying about a crime that could easily get him 20 years, maybe more. Why? What on earth could persuade him to take the fall for something so incriminating?

“Right,” he said. “Back to the phone number. Does the Sherriff know who you called?”

FP snorted. “Are you an interrogator, or my son? And of course not; that Sherriff is the reason why it’s taken the department over four months to close this case.” 

“And look at where that put you.” He snapped, swiftly turning on his heel to leave. 

“Look at me, Jughead!”

He twisted his body to see FP, finally out of his petrified state and leaning against the bars. It made his heart sink at the sight, at how easily FP looked the part of ‘criminal’. How damn easy it would be for the town to ignore anything else, and just present FP as their ‘murderer’, all strings nicely tied up. Because that’s just the kind of town Riverdale was, where the convenient answer, the answer that looks right, becomes the truth. And how everyone just goddamn went with it, and ignored anything else that might’ve said otherwise. 

There was a theory he had read about, the notorious novel 'The Lucifer Effect' by equally as notorious Phillip Zimbardo, which talked about why seemingly good people did bad things. Often establishments would argue in defense, when one of their own were finally caught, due to their dabbling in overt criminal activities, that it was just one bad apple. Just a singular bad person onto which everyone could unload their blame and guilt onto. Just a singular person to which became publicly known as ‘the bad guy’, dividing them from the ‘good guys’. However, he’d read that Zimbardo argued otherwise. His own involvement with the tricky psychology that was the human conscious has let him to take the bad apple metaphor one step further. 

It wasn’t just one bad apple in a crate of good apples. No, it was the crate itself that was rotten, poisoning the other apples, good or bad. The rotten establishment that led for the people within it to become just as putrid and foul. 

Jughead felt that Riverdale could learn a thing or two from Zimbardo.

“Forsythe Pendleton Jones III,” his dad said, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. “Never come back here, you hear me?”  
The air between them seemed to still in anticipation, settling heavily between the two men, only the soft breaths breaking the near silence.

“Got it.”

Jughead was already fumbling with his phone before he’d even fully left the room. His finger hovered over the wonderfully familiar contact name of Nancy Drew.

“You were right about him, Betts.”

xxxx

Two sleuths walked into an abandoned trailer; all they needed now was a punchline. 

The figure next to him shivered violently, tugging the pale pea-coat closer in a futile attempt at keeping in what little warmth she had.   
“I would ask if the temperature just dropped like a horror movie,” Betty Cooper said, through a mouth a chattering teeth. “But I have a feeling that that line is going to get old quickly.”

Jughead let the small smile blossom over his features. Even after all the time they had shared together, he still scarcely could believe that someone as wholly good as her wanted to be with him. And this wasn’t just face value good looks, so to speak. Yes, objectively, she had nice hair and pretty eyes, but anyone could have blonde hair or green eyes. But only Betty had that mesmerising ability to make him forget his own name when her eyes were alight with a fiery desire for the true and knowledge, only Betty’s hair made his breath get caught in his throat when delicate strands escaped from her ponytail to curl around her face when she was furiously writing for her next article. It was all those small things, those little idiosyncrasies, the way she scrunched up her nose, how honest and earnest her nature was, how she absentmindedly chewed on her rosy lip, how stubborn she was for what she felt was right, that just made him fall a little bit more for her every time he saw her.  
Jughead shrugged his own thick, denim jacket off and draped it over her shoulders. 

“Don’t even think about giving it back,” he said, interrupting her attempt at insisting she was fine, eyes scanning over the empty trailer. “Trust me, I’ll be fine.”

Cramped, dusty, the thick, sweet odour of must and faded beer stains. Jughead hated how much nostalgia hit him at that moment, taking it all in. No-one’s reminiscence from their childhood should have to be from dust and the faint reminder of booze. 

Sad. That’s all he could think as his gaze hovered over certain items, the broken table, the broken vase, the upturned chairs. He, the self-proclaimed writer at only seventeen, out of all the colourful and wondrous words he could possible fathom, anguish, misery, affliction, vexation, tribulation, woe, distress, it was ‘sad’ that enveloped every sense in his body. 

Pathetic and sad. 

“Hey,” Betty said softly, curling her fingers around his. “You okay? We can come back later, if you want. I could call Archie-”

Jughead shook his head in a silent no, turning to catch her bright eyes in his. “Thanks, but I think that this needs to be done now.”

She shifted her body to face him completely, the soft pads of her fingers gently tilting his chin towards her to ensure he held eye contact.  
“You sure?”  
A nod. She smiled, so warmly and endearingly, that he couldn’t help but press a quick peck on her lips, and mumbled a quick ‘thank you’. She waved him off.

“No need to thank me, Juggie, although, you could tell me what exactly we are doing here.” Betty subconsciously tilted her head to the side, effortlessly demonstrating the effective use of body language, dialect, ‘The Blue and Gold’. See translation: ‘what are we snooping around for precisely.’

“We are looking for a phone number,” he explained. “Probably on a slip of paper or something. Maybe a note with a number attached?”

Betty quirked an eyebrow. “Seeing how you’ve just returned from talking to Archie’s mom and talking to your dad, my best guess this is for his one phone call?” she offered.

Jughead nodded. “And this is why I brought you, and not Archie.” He nudged her shoulder. “Who would Sherlock be without their Watson?”

Betty scoffed. “We both know that you are definitely the Watson of this duo.”

But then her expression morphed back to one of more seriousness. “Anything else to help us locate a scrap of paper in, well...” she gestured to the collateral damage that was the interior of the trailer.  
He thought about it for a moment. Sherriff Keller hadn’t known who the contact was, meaning he hadn’t found the number himself when he’d ransacked the place. “It’s going to be hidden. I’m fairly certain of that. And, this is mostly speculation, but I’m going to say that it’s hidden in a place that is roughly smaller that a gun.”

“Smaller than a gun?”

“Sherriff Keller would’ve been looking for a murder weapon, or something along the like,” he elaborated. “There isn’t that much that would constitute as incriminating evidence that is smaller than a gun, especially not in this case. The Sherriff didn’t find it when he searched, as he was looking for something more glaringly obvious, from the anonymous tip off they got.”

Betty’s eyebrows crinkled. “How do you know that Archie and Ronnie didn’t find it first?”

“Did they bring it up with you?”

She considered that. “Point taken.”

“Besides,” he continued. “I’m just making educated guesses at this point. I could be completely correct, or completely wrong, and we won’t know until we search this place.”

Betty grinned at him, then kissed the tip of his nose. “Guess we better start looking then.”

xxxx

For all of the anticipation for finding the damned phone number, it was an unnerving moment when Betty found a crumpled post-it note behind an unassuming photograph of Jughead and Jellybean as children. She shot him an unsure look as she passed it to him. “Maybe just another crumpled note?”

In looping red ink, it read:

Call it gifting me with peace of mind knowing that should either of you two get into a spot of bother that you will always be able to contact me.   
Don’t you be letting that infamous Jones pride stop you from asking for help when you need it.  
\- Halona 

Underneath the neat cursive, a phone number was carefully printed.

He felt his heart drop to his stomach for a brief second. Before seeing it in actual, material reality, the phone number would’ve stayed a concept. A safe possibility. Seeing it in the flesh, a physical object that he was currently clutching between two fingers, made the whole thing real again. 

“She was romantically involved with my dad,” he blurted out, in a shoddy attempt at an explanation. Betty didn’t say anything, but squeezed his hand softly, inviting him to continue. 

“A few years ago, she came to town during the summer. Only for that one summer. She and my dad agreed to break off all contact when she left.”

“Oh, did they get into an argument?”

“No. God, Betts, I’ve never seen my dad care for someone as much as he did for her. Or look as torn up when she left.” 

“Oh.” She didn’t say anything else, but he could see her itching to ask ‘why?’. He scrubbed at his eyes.

“She was seventeen, Betts. For the majority of their relationship.”

The tang of cool, chocolate milkshakes ghosted his taste buds, the old memory dancing atop of his tongue. Her Leading Lady looks. Her infectious charm. Her words, always kind but without any trace of condescension. The coy smirk she flashed to him in the neon lights of Pops before the sweep of her cream shawl signalled her permanent departure. 

Betty’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh,” she repeated, but with a vastly different tone and meaning than the first time round. She looked back to the slip of paper, frowning at it in the way she did when her brain was working up possible theories. He’d seen that face many a times in the Blue and Gold office, scrutinizing the murder board.

“He must have thought it was serious enough a situation this time around to warrant a call. He’s almost called her before,” she summarised. Taking the note from Jughead, she smoothed down the jagged creases against the kitchen counter, her nail tracing the flowing font. 

“He didn’t have this when he called her from jail, and if she’s referenced his pride getting in the way of him calling her, so it’s highly unlikely that he’s made a copy to carry around.”   
She paused to take a breath before continuing with what seemed to be an afterthought. “Not to mention that it was hidden; if he’d hidden it, why would he make a copy to carry round?”  
Again, she paused to flash him an open expression, silently asking permission to finish. Jughead obliged with a nod.

“So he would’ve been reciting the number from memory. And I don’t know about you, but the way I remember phone numbers is by dialling them. If this is the first time he’s actually called her, then he’s dialled this number, but then most likely deleted it before going through and calling her.”  
Her eyes flicked to his for confirmation, while he considered her theory. While, like most things the two of them said when coming up with potential explanations, it wasn’t confirmed in anyway, it certainly wouldn’t be foreign in terms of FP’s actions. 

“That’s quite the deduction there, Watson,” he admitted.

Betty raised an eyebrow. “I thought we agreed that you were the Watson here?”

Despite the situation, Jughead felt his lips curl into a tight smirk, and tilted his head to the side.   
“Really? I only recall you telling me that I was the Watson of this duo, I don’t seem to remember any sort of considered agreement.”

“And since when was Watson ever renowned for their deductions?” Betty shot back, fully engaging in the good-natured banter. She theatrically blew him a kiss, which made him laugh.   
“You practically confirmed that I am definitely the Sherlock,” she concluded triumphantly, sticking two hands on her hips in an ever so quintessentially Betty way, that Jughead held his hands up in mock surrender. 

“Okay, Sherlock it is then.” As he let his hands fall to his side, he lent closer to gently weave his finger though hers.   
“Thank you,” he said sincerely, his softening to something more akin to a whisper. “Thank you for helping me.”  
As he said that, they both knew he wasn’t referring to just the trailer search. 

He glanced back to the counter, where the note still sat, red ink scrawl a little too alike to the rusty hue of blood for his liking. Or maybe his thoughts were still too wrapped up in those of murders and crime.

“Do you think he has called her before?”  
Betty’s eyes held concern, which we was pretty sure mirrored his. Slender, long fingers dug into his back pocket, as his hand closed around his phone.   
“One way to find out for sure, I guess.”

The number was already dialed and ‘call’ pressed before he consciously registered his own movements. 

xxxx

NOTES:

The ethnicity of Halona is to be left open for personal interpretation.  
I am aware that the tone of this may appear to be quite different from ‘Shame’. This is because, while this does feature FP and Halona’s relationship, it is not the primary focus. Instead, the main focus is on the town Riverdale itself as a whole and the interconnectedness between the families (similar to the show).  
I cannot promise for a regular update schedule, but I can promise that this means it wont be horribly rushed. And this should definitely be completed, like, there is absolutely no reason for this to not be finished eventually, as I have planned the whole story out.   
I am planning for this story to be finished before the premiere of Season 2, but I guess we’ll see how accurate that claim will be. 

Any comments, thoughts and concerns are welcome x  
\- Alex


	2. The Call of Youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The anticipated phone call reveals some unrevealed information for both sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that in this, FP and Gladys (Jughead and Jellybean’s mum) are divorced.   
> Further notes at the end of chapter

Throughout his life, and most certainly during his budding writing career – if it could be called that – Jughead had often heard of the term “waited with bated breath”. Heck, he’d even used it in his work more times than he would’ve liked to admit. It was just one of those expressions that people used to convey feelings of anticipation, for feelings of oncoming dread, anxiety and nervousness. He certainly hadn’t necessarily given the phrase that much in-depth consideration whenever he’d used it, most probably mundanely sipping on a coffee as he did so.

He felt that he had severely underestimated the connotations of that expression in those short moments of watching his phone dial Halona Ridgemount’s number. A mental note was made to remember everything he felt, during his first time completely and utterly appreciating what that term summed up.

The stale tang in his mouth. The way his tongue felt heavy and thick, sitting dryly in metallic spit. The heightened conscious need to swallow. The sting of his chapped lips as he licked them. The cool air catching in the raw, exposed areas were he’d bitten his lip too hard. The way the spiralling dust of the desolate trailer seemed to halt, preserving the two of them in the agonising state of anticipation.

Perhaps it was a wariness of the unknown. After all, all his life there had been let down after let down, Bad News which was only followed up with Even Worse News. But he’d always more or less known what to expect. Jughead prided himself for being an outsider, an observer, perhaps a little more than was strictly accurate at this stage in the game, and always relied on his ability to read people. To develop an understanding for their thought processes, how they worked, how they thought. Considerably harder to apply to with someone he’d met once for a milkshake a little over three years ago.

Of course, in a brief address to a fourth wall, this wasn’t an irrational reaction. Between strictly just between the audience and myself, I take this moment to confide that this was the moment that fractured our dear character’s fates into considerably unknown terrain. Probably best be seen as crossroads in a visual example. One road, where Betty and Jughead simply don’t dial the number, deciding that it was probably for the best that they didn’t interfere and bring more people into the decidedly infuriating game of Who killed Jason Blossom?

And of course, the other road, where our dear sleuth’s thirst for knowledge, and answers to countless open questions, pressed the ‘call’ button for Halona Ridgemount. And thus follows their uneasiness of the unprecedented unknown, and a list of endless possible aftermaths, to this one isolated phone call.

The ringing stopped. Those little numbers that showed the duration of a phone call started to tick, counting _00:01_ , _00:02_ , _00:03_. The crackle of the line grated in his ear drums viscerally.

_“Hello?”_ a voice on the other line inquired.

Jughead fiddled with his phone for a moment, hitting speaker phone.

“Uh...” his tongue felt heavy and useless as he tried to encourage it to form comprehendible words. Typical, just when he needed to speak, is words failed him. He cleared his pathetically dry throat, and flashed Betty a grateful look at her reassuring expression.

“Hi, um, is this Halona?”

After a beat of silence, he followed up with “Halona Ridgemount?”

The voice on the on the other line went quiet for a second, but still present, with their breathing being steadily caught in the crackle of phone waves.

_“Who is asking?”_

It was hard to determine the owner of the voice, as Jughead struggled to hear if it was her or not. His efforts proved to be fairly futile, as the voice could’ve easily belonged to any well spoken personage of an adult status.

“Uh, Jughead Jones?” There, was that a hitch in their breath? Did they recognise his name? Was it surprise from an unusual name? Was it just the God-awful phone line?

“I’m also known as Forsythe Pendelton-”

“ _Pentelton Jones III_ ,” the voice finished. Jughead’s chin jerked to face Betty, eyes bright.

‘Is it her?’ she mouthed. Jughead shrugged uncertainly. Maybe? Because they knew his full name?

The phone hung up.

“Oh.” Jughead blinked at it, surprised. “Well, I didn’t expect th-”

His phone brightly buzzed to life, catching him off guard, and causing him to almost drop the damn thing. Betty tried, unsuccessfully, to hide her snort of laughter at his reaction.

_‘Unknown Number is calling for FaceTime’_

“Oh!” Betty exclaimed, letting out a breath that she must have been holding.  
“I just thought they were being rude or something.”

He tapped ‘ _accept_ ’. This gave him approximately less than a second to haphazardly prop his phone up on the kitchen counter to before the phone’s black screen lit up.

A young woman’s face popped up, short copper curls coiling around her ears, with a scrutinizing expression etched across her striking features. Despite the years it had been since the two had met, the iconic cream shawl and meticulous lipstick were still very much in place, and confirmed her identity.

“Halona?”  

Her dubious gaze quickly melted into a heart-warming grin.

“Well if it isn’t little Jughead Jones, all grown up!” She shot them a bashful smile.

“My deepest apologies for the impromptu video call, but I had to determine it was you.”

Jughead furrowed his eyebrows. “Exactly how many Jugheads, nay, Forsthye Pendelton Jones’ do you know?”

She shifted in her chair, causing the screen to glitch for a moment. “It’s been a weird day.” Leaning forward, she laced her fingers and averted her attention to Betty.

“But you simply must introduce me to this absolute charming lady sat next to you.”

Betty reached towards the phone, in the apparent instinctual need to shake Halona’s hand, before realising her mistake, and quickly retracting her hand.

“Betty, this is Halona Ridgemount. Halona, Betty Cooper,” Jughead hastily introduced. “But what did you mean that it was a weird day?”

She raised an eyebrow at that. “Seriously? I really doubt that you’d call out of the blue after three years if this wasn’t something to do with your morbid curiosity and why Forsythe called me earlier.”   
It took Jughead an embarrassingly long second to realise that she referred to FP with his full first name. She spread her hands.

“Why not just ask him? I take that he’s around, yes?”

Betty nudged Jughead hard, eyes flashing scepticism, ever so slightly inclining her head towards his phone. Yet another flawless demonstration of ‘The Blue and Gold’ dialect of body language. See translation: _Tread carefully_ or alternatively _I think we know something they don’t_. Handily (or not so), both definitions applied to the situation at hand.

Just as he was about to ask why exactly why she thought FP was amiably wandering around, when a loud thud echoed from Halona’s side of the conversation. She shot up from her chair. “I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back.”

Once her slightly pixelated figure exited the screen, Betty whispered. “I don’t think FP told her where he is at this current moment.”

Jughead groaned in annoyance. “But the number was meant for emergencies, which he never used anyway. And what this would imply is that he just called her out of the blue for, what, a chat? A friendly catch up? It doesn’t make sense.”

“And that is why,” Betty countered calmly, placing a hand atop his, which had curled into a fist in frustration. “We are phoning in the first place. To find out what he did call her about, why he called her. The facts are what is going to help us find out what FP’s reasons are for bringing Halona into the equation. But we need to tell her about your dad first, Juggie.”

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “But what do we say? ‘Hey, I know I just called you after three years, but by the way, your ex-boyfriend has been arrested for murder and we don’t think he did it? No! We have literally no evidence to back this up, just my instinct’.”

“What was that about your instinct?”

Halona had reappeared on screen. However, this time, a pudgy toddler was sat upon her lap, gurgling happily and waving a sticky fist around wildly. Jughead almost choked on his own breath.

“Halona...is that...?”

She grinned, though it was a bit feeble and she looked a little guilty. “If I recall correctly, I _did_ say I wasn’t making any promises about any half brothers or sisters.”

Kissing the top of the short, wild locks of the toddler, she spoke softly.   
“Max, this is your older brother, Jughead.”

“’Ughea’!” The kid cried, squealing gleefully as his mother blew a raspberry on his cheek.

“Good job!” she cheered, passing him an obnoxiously rattling toy to keep him happy, as she turned her attention back to the two stunned teens.

“That’s...my younger brother?” Jughead whispered, a subconscious finger hovering just above the video screen in awe. “You and dad...how did he react.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the conversation, as Halona winced slightly. “Ah, um, about that-”

“You haven’t told him,” Jughead said flatly.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to!” she quickly clarified. “God, did I want to, but we agreed no contact, and I thought it was for the best. And then when he called today, I thought, well, here’s my chance, but you know how his is, Jug.”   
She rubbed her eyes tiredly. “I know he’d think that he’s ruined my future, or something, that somehow everything is his fault, and how responsible he’d feel, and I just...” she trailed off, squirming in her chair as Max started to chew on one of her curls. “I thought it was for the best. And we’ve been alright, haven’t we, Maxy?”

Max enthusiastically garbled, now waving two sticky fists, bits of copper hair still damp in his mouth.

Betty looked at Jughead, her open expression asking for permission to break the news. A sort of unsaid agreement passed between the two of them, while Halona cooed at Max. _Now or never._

“Miss Ridgemount,” Betty started, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She always did that when she slipped into her professional persona, Jughead observed.

“Halona, please.”

“Halona.” Jughead slipped his hands into hers, gently pushing her fingers away from were they had just ever so slightly started to curl into fists.   
“Do you know where FP is at this current moment?”

The young woman in question frowned. “Is it important that I should?”

“Yes,” Betty clarified. “I’m afraid it is.”

Halona tilted her head a fraction to the side, before shaking it slowly. “I’m afraid not. When he called, he mentioned he was pressed for time, but he didn’t disclose his location.”

Betty bit her lip. “I’m sorry to be the one to have to break it to you, but he is currently being held at the Sheriff’s station.”  
She lowered her eyes. “He’s been arrested for the murder of Jason Blossom.”

xxxx

I’m not sure if you’ve ever received such news as that. To hear that a loved one, who you thought you knew so perfectly, had done something so atrocious, so inhumane.

It was as though time itself had stopped. Halona felt as though the entirety of the universe had frozen around her. In her dorm room, Max’s weight was still heavy on her lap, but now with a more numbing effect than comforting. In a distant corner of her mind, a isolated thought drifted around, wondering if Jughead had felt like this too, when he’s heard the news.

It had been too long since she’d seen Forsythe for the last time in that trailer. Too long since she had felt the rough texture of stubble as she held his face. Too long since she’d made his hand close around her ribbon – perhaps a trivial action in the eyes of some, but she knew that he would understand what that meant to her.

It had been too long since she’d been driving home one day, and had to pull over to throw up. Too long since she’d seen the little pink plus sign, revealed in the dingy lighting of a store’s back toilet.

The saying went that people changed as the time did. But to make the turn to murder? Of course she knew of his brushing with the law; she’d always known. But she trusted him. She trusted her knowledge of him. He wouldn’t’ve.

Halona shook her head, silently cursing herself for how her waterline was starting to get thicker. She held Max closer, as if in the irrational fear that hearing his father was under arrest would mean someone was going to suddenly snatch him away from her.

“No.” Was that her voice? It was hardly more than a croak. “No, he wouldn’t...”

“And I don’t think he has either,” Jughead contributed, tapping his spindly long fingers in an erratic beat on the table top. The internet connection must have been dodgy on his side as, in the video, the sound was out of synch with his movements. It didn’t help with the disorientation from the sudden declaration that her ex-lover she hadn’t heard from in years had been arrested for murder.

“What?” she asked, exasperated.

The blonde girl, Betty, piped up. “He’s been arrested, but we believe he’s covering for someone.” There was another jolt of a glitch as Betty flicked a glance at Jughead, ponytail bouncing.  
“And we’d like to try to find out what he’s covering up and why.”

It was all starting to click into place now.   
“Oh...” Halona said, feeling her neck involuntarily nodding slowly. “So you’re both phoning to ask what he called me about?”

“Yes,” they both said at the same time. Halona involuntarily raised her eyebrow a fraction. It was bizarre watching the two of them work together, both utterly in synch with each others movements and wavelengths.

Although Jughead had definitely hit puberty and was no longer quite the tangle of gangly limbs he’d been when she’d last seen him, he still possessed his brooding qualities with that intense stare that he was fixing her right now. Put Little Miss Betty Cooper into the mix, whose pastel delight of an ensemble certainly clashed thematically with her partner in crime, and you’ve practically dreamed up the ideal TV police sitcom duo of squabbling colleges.

But the two worked off each other in such a blunt way that Halona had scarcely seen in professional spheres, let alone _high school students_ , that she couldn’t help but be impressed.

“I’m not the first to have come under the inquisition of Betty and Jughead, am I?” she teased lightly, taking the opportunity to move away from the fact the _Forsythe was in jail_ with both hands. Neither of them smiled, evidently concerning their primary focus to the task at hand. _Fair enough_ , Halona thought. She blew a frizzy curl out of her face.

“Admittedly, it was quite strange, hearing from Forsythe after no communication for a good three years.” Her mind drifted back to when her phone had vibrated to life in her pocket, recounting how surprised she was to hear it was him that she nearly fell of her chair. “I guess he finally got around that godforsaken pride of his.”

xxxx

_Unknown Number: Accept / Decline._

_Accept. Connecting...._

_“Hello?”_

**_“Halona...it’s been a while.”_ **

_Mouth dry. Shallow vision. And all from that stupidly endearing gravely voice. Typical._

_“Speaking?”_

_She knew full well who was speaking._

**_“It’s Forsythe. But you knew that.”_ **

_“I thought it best to check. Three years can do a lot to a person.”_

**_“Not that you’ve been keepin’ track or somethin’.”_ **

_“Of course not.”_

**_Deep breath. “Listen, Hal, I don’t have much time-”_ **

_“Give a man your number and he’ll keep it for three years, then pick the time to call when he doesn’t have much of it.”_

**_“You know me, great timin’.”_ **

_“Impeccable.” More deep breaths. Crackling silence. “So... what is it?”_

**_“You, um... you been doin’ okay?”_ **

_“And then follows up informing me that he is pressed for time with the impending topic that he chooses to grace me with is idle chit chat. I really know how to pick ‘em.”_

**_“Please, Hal, it’s...” Swallows. “It’s really important that you answer that.”_ **

_“Forsythe...is something wrong? Are you okay? What’s going on?”_

**_“I’m good, Hal, I just need to know if you’ve been doin’ alright.”_ **

_“Uh...yeah. I guess.” Perhaps not the best moment to inform of one more addition to the Jones’ lineage._

**_“You sure? You ain’t been through anythin’...weird, or nothin’?”_ **

_“Forsythe, would there be any particular reason why I would be exposed to anything ‘weird’?”_

**_“No! No, just...want to make sure you’ve been doin’ good.”_ **

_“Well...I have. And yourself?”_

**_“I’m good, Hal. Really, I am. Hearin’ your voice after...”  
Thick swallow. Sigh. “It’s nice talkin’ to you. I’ve missed you.”_ **

_“Me too, Jones. God knows, me too.” Blink hard. You won’t cry, don’t be silly._

**_“Listen, Hal, could I ask a favour?”_ **

_“Ah, there it is. I was waiting for a request.”_

**_“You think I called you only for that?”_ **

_“Well, I didn’t think you’d call for just a chat.”_

**_“If I recite a number, can you call it?”_ **

_“Well, I should certainly should hope so. I can’t think of any other use of  phone number, though Lord knows I’ve spend many good years theorising.”_

**_“I’m serious, Hal.”_ **

_“Who said I was joking.”_

**_“The number is **** *** ***. You got that?”_ **

_“Last three digits again?”_

**_“*-*-*”_ **

_“Okay, got it.”_

**_“Right, so call it, and tell the kid on the other side that you work for FP. Say ‘Blossom Maple Farm Billboard’ and he’ll know I’ve sent you. His name is Joaquin. Tell him to forget the plan. It’s really important to tell him, with those exact words, to forget the plan.”_ **

_“Yessir.”_

**_Hitch of breath. “Don’t- don’t call me sir.”_ **

_“Am I making you feel uncomfortable...sir?” Husky voice. Strained swallow on the other line._

**_“Very much so, Halona.”_ **

_“Good. So, call **** *** *-*-*, the kid is Joaquin, Blossom Maple Farm Billboard, ‘forget the plan’. Anything I miss?”_

**_“No, that’s it. Thank you. Really, thank you.” Murmurs. Footsteps.  
“Listen, Hal, I gotta go. God, I wish I could keep speakin’ with you, but I really can’t talk any longer.”_ **

_“You never did have a knack with timing, Forsythe. Or goodbyes.”_

****_“Seems that’s stayed with me since I saw you last then.” Deep breath. More footsteps. Rushed, lowered voice now._  
“I know it’s been years, and you’ve probably moved on, but I never said it. I always meant to. Honest, I always meant to.”   
Breath. “I lo-” 

_Unknown Number has hung up. End of call._

xxxx

“That was it?” Jughead asked in disbelief, trying to hide his disappointment. None of what Halona had detailed to them constituted as rock hard evidence of, well...anything. Except for one thing. Betty took the lead.

“Miss Ridg-, Halona. When you mentioned a kid called Joaquin, did you mean _Joaquin DeSantos_?”

The woman on the other line frowned, eyes fixed to the top of her son’s head, fingers gently smoothing his hair in a nurturing manner that only a mother knows how. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, but neither parties gave a last name. Is it important?”

Jughead considered the explanation it would take to try to explain how Kevin’s boyfriend was potentially involved, but decided against it.   
“Sort of. Long story. What did Joaquin say when you called?”

She shrugged. “Nothing, really. Maybe a ‘got it’ before hanging up, but nothing about whatever plan Forsythe was referring to.” After a beat of silence of anticipation from both side, Halona continued.  
“Anything else you kids want to know?”

Just as Jughead was about to decline and thank her, a rogue thought popped into his head. “Oh, I almost forgot. Halona, when you came here last, you were staying with the Blossoms. Was there anything... unusual going on? With the Blossoms, I mean?”

She clicked her tongue in response. “Sorry, we didn’t actually stay with them. Us Ridgemounts have been dealing with the Blossoms for generations, so we actually have a smaller property located in Riverdale, which is where we stayed.   
“As for the family itself... its hard to say.  Only met them a handful of time, and it was over a good three years ago. Details are a bit hazy, but I don’t remember anything particularly unusual.”  
She looked at the ground apologetically. “Sorry, I know that’s not much use.”

There were many times where Jughead was grateful for a certain Miss Betty Cooper being his partner in crime. Admittedly, many of those times were when they were sharing kisses in the Blue and Gold office, where they remained the sole two writers. However, Betty was undoubtedly far more of a “people-person” than he was, and tended to always get a situation under control where emotions rung amok.   
Had Jughead been the sole handler of such a situation, it was safe to say that emotions would run right into hysteria rather than tone down to something calmer.

Betty smiled reassuringly at Halona, who was currently trying to convince toddler Max to exchange her wallet for a pacifier. “Halona, all your contributions have been highly useful. Thank you so much for everything.”

Halona nodded, not looking entirely convinced, and stuck the pacifier into Max’x mouth. “Before you go, could you promise me something? Keep me up to date with Forsythe’s situation, please?”

“Of course.”

Digging into her pocket, Halona flicked open a battered looking, old fashioned wrist-watch (Jughead had no idea why it wasn’t just on her wrist) and chewed her lip. “It’s getting late. I should probably get going. After all, Jughead, don’t you have a long journey.”

“Uh...” The two sleuthers exchanged confused expressions. “It’s only four o’ clock. And why would I have a long journey?”

“Because you’re mom is in Toledo...” Halona started slowly. Fortunately, her tone of voice was simply hesitant, rather than condescending. “Are you not staying with her? With Forsythe in police custody?”

Jughead winced involuntarily slightly at the mention of her. “No, she expressed quite clearly how she doesn’t have enough room at the moment.”   
A polite way of phrasing that not even his own mother wanted to be burdened with her son. That seemed to be a reoccurring theme throughout his life, he reflected numbly, his mouth flooding with a bitter taste. Wherever he went, whoever he was with, sooner or later he became just another burden to them. Possibly the only silver lining to when he was homeless; at least he wasn’t another weight on somebody else.

Halona raised her eyebrow, incredulous. “You’re not serious.”

“Yup.”

Halona lent back in her chair, causing Max on her lap to whine. “Jesus.”   
Then, she appeared to go very white. “Wait, who are you staying with instead?”

Jughead crinkled his brow. “Uh, Archie, my best friend. Why, is it important?”

Halona’s lips had transformed into a thin, rigid line, eyes completely void of any form of humour. “I’m studying Law at the moment, which has specifically covered custody law. How long have you been living with Archie?”

He quickly totted up the weeks in a crudely crafted mental calendar.  
“Month, month and a half roughly.”

“Is this a long term plan?”

His mind flashed with the conversation her overheard between Archie and Fred Andrews. Similar to his musings concerning his mother, this left a slightly sour taste in his mouth. “No.”

“Right, so is Archie’s dad considering, say, initiating a long term plan? Specifically speaking, do you think he’s going to get authorities, social services involved in your case.”

“Yeah, I think so, I heard him talking about it.”

“Shit,” she whispered. “Shit.”

Betty frowned, concerned. “Uh, that a bad thing?”

Unfortunately for her, she found herself addressing little Max, as his mother had leapt up out of her chair, and they could only a blurry image of her outline dashing to the other side of her room and typing something into a laptop. This warranted another ‘ _shit_ ’. Little Max flashed them both a toothy grin, and giggled.

“Jughead, you are most likely going to get a social worker.” Halona’s voice was garbled with connectivity issues as she hastily went into an explanation, pulling out armfuls of clothes from her closet, then stuffing them into a small bag. He wasn’t entirely sure as to why she had decided to spontaneously pack for a holiday in the middle of their conversation, but, to each their own.

“If both of your parent’s are deemed unfit guardians, then you’ll get put into the fostering system. Taking that  your mother is correct about no suitable living space with her, you wouldn’t be put there anyway. Any family deemed fit for fostering will be your first placement. But, unfortunately, the whole process to _become_ fit for fostering is unbelievably long, like, we’re talking two years here. What this means is that there are reduced numbers of families who are actually deemed qualified to foster kids by social services .   
“However, they usually go for much younger kids, like toddlers or babies. Chances of fostering get extremely slim above the age of thirteen. If your social worker can’t find you a suitable family, the you’ll go to a foster home.”

“Hold up,” Jughead said, processing all that she was saying. The twinge of nausea that he seemed to be ever so well acquainted with that day was slowly returning, uncomfortably twisting in his gut. Betty snuck her hand into his.   
“Does this mean that Fred won’t be able to be my legal guardian?”

All he could see was a bounce of, fairly pixilated, copper curls, which he ingeniously interpreted to be a nod.  
“Unless he’s been through the required training to be deemed fit to foster, then yes.”

“Is the foster home in Riverdale that bad if you kept saying shit?”

“You could say that,” Halona agreed. “Considering that it doesn’t exist.”

It should come as no surprise that the twinge in his gut only increased as he was following more and more as to what she was saying.   
“Nearest one is how far away exactly?” he asked, mouth bearing more resemblance to a sandpit at this point.

“Knightdale.” It didn’t ring any bells. That was worrying.   
“Which is three towns over.” Definitely worrying.  
“It’s practically out of state, at this point.”

“So, because my dad was arrested for something he didn’t do, I’m gonna be kicked out to another town that’s miles away.” That depressingly pathetic tone of voice was back, and Jugehad hated how bitter it tasted in his sandpit-of-a-mouth.

“No, it’s not fair.” A large zipping noise made the connection crackle, as Halona dumped the, now bulging, bag at her feet, and her face appeared back on screen. “But I might be able to help. I have an idea in terms of custody that should keep you in Riverdale.”

She reached out to the screen, her fingertips a breath away from endearingly brushing the screen. “You’re a smart kid, Jug. In terms of education, it’s in your best interest to not move you to a new environment, or a new school for that matter. I can’t let that happen.”

She straightened up. “But one thing at a time. I can do all that once I get there.”

Betty took a sharp intake of breath. “Get there?” she repeated.

“I’m coming to Riverdale,” Halona concluded. “Call me if you need me.”

And with that, Jughead’s phone screen went dark as she hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such an unprecedented amount of times between updates – I’ve been hopping all around the blooming place recently with being on holiday.
> 
> While the actual fostering information has not being properly researched, all the stuff Halona explains towards the end of this chapter is based of my, admittedly limited, knowledge of the foster-care system. Primarily Jacqueline Wilson books. Although all this is very UK cent red; I am less informed about how the system works in the USA, specifically to how laws may change depending on the state.   
> Any thoughts, comments or concerns are welcome x  
> \- Alex


	3. Appearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halona returns to Riverdale and reunites with FP face-to-face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the literal month wait. I have absolutely no excuse.   
> Further notes at bottom.

 

xxxx

Scenery flew past in a mesmerising swirl of colours, greens, browns, greys, yellows, a full mundane palette. Halona found herself going cross-eyed trying to keep track of everything that blurred past; a tree, metal railing, another tree, some houses, more trees.   
It was something that had become a habit, lagging on from childhood, where she would pretend that she could see a little running man scaling the treacherous terrain with ease along with the car.

“ _What are you looking at, habibi?”_  
“The little running man, mama! He runs so fast, he’s waving at me as he runs!”  
“Make sure to sit back, habibi, you don’t want to damage your eyes.”

The image of her mother was held in her mind for a second. Memories of strong Arabic fragrant oil, _oud_ , pinched her nose, sharp with it’s sentiment and nostalgia.   
Prior to marrying her father, her mother, _Elena_ , had worked for prestigious banks all over the globe, but in all the stories Halona had been told as a child, her mother held the Middle Eastern countries close to her heart. Saudi Arabia, Iran, Qatar, Dubai, Kuwait, each place sounding more and more fascinating and wonderful than the last. Elena had told Halona that she had even worked with _royalty_.

“Did you meet any princesses?” seven year old Halona had asked, eagerly.

Her mother had just laughed, in the effortlessly glamourous way she did, and had kissed her daughter on the cheek. “I have only had the pleasure of meeting a princess once, _habibi_.”

“Was she strong, mama?”

Another powdery kiss on the other cheek. “As of right now, she needs to go to sleep, as it is past her bedtime. But I don’t have a doubt in my mind that she will be.”

It was how she had met her father. A rich lineage that had been built upon the manufacturing of whiskey, the Ridgemounts had immigrated to Canada from Scotland, where Elena Ilmorn had met the prestigious _Igor Ridgemount_.   
Apparently, there was an unspoken rule that ran in the family that everyone in it had to have a vaguely pompous sounding sort of name. It went with the branding.

As the bus continued to chug its way along, she idly traced a cloud in the condensation and wondered what her parents would think of their daughter if they knew what she was doing. So promising, studying Law at a prestigious university, yet running off to go help an ex-lover / potential convict and his son. The fifteen year age gap was also sure to go down well.  

Max’s existence was no secret, a matter that was met with raised eyebrows, but she had the luxury of family support for her choice to keep and raise him. The subject of his father was...put off, to say the least. Both the parents knew it was someone from that Small Quaint Town they had visited That One Summer, her mother had the assumption that it was a whirlwind summer romance with a rebel youth, and Halona just hadn’t corrected her.

There had been countless times where she lay awake in the darkness of night, pulling Max closer to her chest, her mind running around and ‘round in circles, considering, sometimes doubting, what had occurred 3 years ago. Had she really been as prepared as she’d thought she had been for a relationship with someone nearly twice her age? And when she was seventeen? In the present, she wouldn’t trade Max for the world, but looking back at her past self, her actions seemed so utterly foolish and naïve.  
Especially considering how she hadn’t made it a one-off engagement, returning now years later.

Waiting for the bus with Max wailing in her arms, Halona had actually prematurely turned around to head back to her dorm room, scathingly cursing herself for being drawn back into what they had both agreed to keep dead. But then all it would take would be for her to remember that the Jones were facing the brunt of brutal labelling, with one being sent off to prison for a crime he didn’t commit, and the other being carted around to God knows where, and all thanks to a faulty justice system, and she would be marching straight back to where she started.

Her father had always drilled a sort of philosophy into her head. _You are coming from a point of power, Halona. It therefore means that if you see someone in need, it is your duty to help them, as power is meant to be used for that purpose.  
_ Perhaps not necessarily the best applicable situation that her father had been referring to, but injustice was injustice. And a part of her knew that if she didn’t go at all, even after knowing she could help, she would hold on to that regret for a very, very long time.

There had been the matter of her work at college, which turned out to actually be not that big of a deal.

After she had packed in a new record of under two seconds, she had firmly bounced Max on her hip as she went off to speak with the administration, and, in a tone of voice carefully moulded off her mother’s no-room-for-argument voice, _very firmly_ insisted that there had been a family emergency out of town.

The lady she spoke with clearly thought that she had better things to do than deal with a student’s education, rolled her eyes and told her that her professors would email her all assignments for the winter break.  
And that had been pretty much it. Surprisingly.

If there was one thing Halona was grateful for from college was the relieving lack of communication between the administration and her parents. Not that her parents were terrible, or anything like that, but it certainly graced her with a certain stretch of independence.   
Independence for helping the father of her child who was incarcerated, specifically. But, minor details.

Which brought her back to reality. Sitting on an overnight bus heading to Riverdale, little Max pressing handprints to the condensation on the window, and a whole lot of baggage to deal with upon her arrival.

Fishing into her pocket, Halona dug out a small book for the rest of the ride. Turned out that the college library had been particularly helpful. As she flipped it open to her spot, the title flashed to where other passengers could read the cursive, had they been paying attention.

_The History of the Blossom Maple Syrup Industry – A Biography_

xxxx

The door that connected the police station and the cells opened. One of Sheriff’s goons stepped inside, as monotone and undescriptive as the rest of them. The only vaguely individual feature of his was that his voice sounded like he was continuously trying to cough up a fur-ball every time he opened his mouth.

“Your fiancé has arrived to visit,” he nasally reported.

FP’s frown increased in intensity, shifting into a glower. “I don’t-”

I’m sure it goes without saying that all the breath was stolen from his lungs the moment he saw the swish of a all-too-familiar cream shawl from behind the positively grey officer. Added on that she also had an child oh her hip who looked a little _too_ like her for it to be a babysitting occasion or coincidence, and the poor man had practically forgotten how to use his tongue.

This was less of a problem for Miss Halona Ridgemount.

“Oh, I know, darling,” she said, each and every word oozing class and wealth, if not the slightest part a pantomime.   
“I am dreadfully sorry for the unexpected visit, but you can’t have thought that I would have simply stayed out of the country on that business trip.” She waved a hand, the picturesque image of a high socialist who did such things as go on out-of-country business trips. All she needed was elbow long evening gloves and a ring on each finger, just for punctuation.   
“I rearranged as soon as I heard of this hoo-rah going on.”

FP still hadn’t quite managed to form coherent sentences just yet, so she turned to the guard. “Would you be a doll, and allow me and my fiancé a moment of privacy? There are many things we need to discuss.”

Severe understatement.

Fur-Ball Voice didn’t appear to be terribly concerned. He shrugged, and pulled the door to, leaving the three of the alone in a room thick with unresolved tensions.

“So...” Halona said, considerably and visibly far more uncomfortable than the façade for the guard had been. She didn’t sound nearly as so playful as when he called her, and was refusing to meet his eyes. “Uh..”

She didn’t continue with that impeccable train of thought, as the toddler gurgled on her hip, and she hoisted him into her arms, softly cooing at him to keep him calm.

“Hal...” FP’s voice croaked, his dry lips cracking as he licked them. “Is that..?” He cleared his throat.   
“You look...” _Different after 3 years? Bizarre standing in front of my prison cell?_    
“Well,” he finished pathetically.

Halona finally looked up at him, as if remembering why she was there, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Really? That’s all you have to say for your self, Forsythe? You call me out of the blue, and neglect to tell me you’ve been arrested for murder!”

He furrowed his brows. “How’d’ya...?” His son’s face flashed in his mind, quickly throwing back to when Jughead had been asking him about the phone number.  
“Jughead called you,” he realised aloud.

She snorted, but for once he didn’t hear even a vague sense of humorous undertones. “Excuse me, but you’re still not addressing the elephant in the room here, Jones. You were _arrested for murder and it just happened to slip your mind to tell me?_ ” Her voice steadily rose throughout her accusations.

“Oh, I ain’t addressin’ the elephant in the room?” FP snapped, springing up from where he was lounging on the unforgiving stone bench of his cell.   
“What about this little un’, then?” He gestured to the toddler, who was starting to shift uncomfortably at hearing the raised voices of the adults in the room.

“How old is he, two or so? Coincidental? If it is, I’m all ears.”

She glowered at him. “That’s different.” He noticed how she didn’t correct him.

“Different, huh?” He laughed, perhaps more bitterly than he’d intended. “That’s rich.”

Halona flushed a dark red. “You know, I didn’t have to come, especially if your going to be such an ass about it,” she snapped back.

“The why did you!”

His words reverbed around the room, stunning the two of them at the volume of his statement. Even with the deathly silence that followed, the two of them could hear what he said ringing in their ears, though more of a mental predicament than a physical one. The kid started to cry at the loud noise, causing Halona to divert her attention to help calm his fear.

FP bit on his tongue, regret easily seeping into him. He didn’t want his grand reunion with her to spark an argument between the two of them, and from the look on her face, neither did she.

He slumped back down onto his bench, burying his head into his hands, grabbing at fistfuls of his hair. In his mind, he was transported back to when Clifford Blossom had visited him.

  _A true devil in disguise_. _His soft, poisonous whispers into his ear. Threats carefully veiled with velvet words. The sickly stench of maple syrup and whiskey on his breath. FP’s son. How FP’s son’s life was on the line. And another. Another name. His words caressing that name, a name that he should never dared to’ve spoken. Talk of how she was far to precious to get tangled up into the sticky business of murder._

“You shouldn’t’ve come, Hal,” FP said, wearily.

In his peripheral vison, he could see her taking more tentative steps, sitting on the floor at the base of the bars.   
“You called, Jughead called.” She shrugged, pulling the kid onto her lap.  
“I gave you that number for emergencies; I think it’s pretty safe to class this as one.”

_But it’s not safe_ , he wanted to protest. He refrained, knowing that if he did, then she would drill him as to why, and (knowing her) proceed to resolve the issue. An issue that could get her killed.   
She gestured for him to join her on the floor. Once he’d obliged, she lifted up one of the kid’s arms to reach through the bars towards him.

“Max.” she spoke softly, a tone far more akin to the one he was familiar with from 3 years ago. “This is your dad.”

_Max,_ he thought, a little giddily. _His second son_.

Whether or not Max properly understood what his mother was saying, he reached forward eagerly towards the figure behind bars.   
“Dad, dad, dad, dad,” he garbled, most likely just repeating his mom, but it made FP’s heart lift.

“Hey, Max,” he said, the words close to getting stuck in his throat. He leant forward to plant a kiss atop his head of unruly curls, causing Max to giggle when he hit his head on the metal rungs of the cell.

“I didn’t want you to blame yourself.”

Halona was very pointedly looking at his shoulder, but her eyes were unfocused, most likely lost in her own world of thoughts. There was a chance that she hadn’t even realised that she’d spoken out loud.

“When we were together...you always seemed so ashamed of yourself. Like you were just waiting for me to disintegrate at your touch or something. Why we agreed to break off contact, agreed that I would go to college as my parents wanted, so that I could pursue a career. I didn’t want you to feel as though you’d ruined my life.”

She shifted her gaze to his. “Max is my greatest joy to this day. And I-”

Her words faltered, and he saw that her line of sight had slowly moved down to his top pocket of his flannel. “What?”

Though decidedly unreadable, her whole face soften visibly. “You kept it?”

Before he could ask what she was talking about, her hand reached towards him, and he held his breath sub-consciously. He struggled to find the answer as to why he did; hence, the sub-conscious part.

Her fingers looped around the red ribbon, that had been poking out just enough to visibly clash against the dark pattern of his flannel, pulling it free slowly. It fluttered in the still air, as she regarded it with bittersweet fondness.

“’Course I did. You asked me to.”

Max was mesmerised by the thin stand that his mother was running through her spindly fingers, and made an effort to grab for it. Smiling, Halona surrendered the ribbon, and both parents watched endearingly as he tried diligently to mimic how Halona had woven the delicate threat through her fingers.

“To me, it seems so silly now,” Halona sighed. “For me to put so much unnecessary emphasis and importance into a fucking ribbon.”

FP’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I didn’t know you swore.”

“Only on special occasions. Its been a long couple of days.”

“Fair ‘nuff.” He shifted his weight for where he was sitting on the floor. “But does it really matter? At the time, it was somethin’ that you found important. So what if you’ve changed your mind now.”

“I suppose.” She paused. “Forsythe, you know that me being here isn’t for me to rekindle whatever we had years ago.”

Of course she wasn’t. Times had changed, and so had they. He nodded, swallowing. “Yeah, I know.”

“That’s not to say that you can’t see Max or anything,” she hurriedly followed up. “Just...I didn’t come here to be with you romantically.”

He leant forward, his dark eyes trained on her. “So why did you?”

She blinked at him. “To get you out.”

He looked at her shocked. “There is no way in hell you’re gonna do a jail break.”

Halona scowled at him. “No, you dolt, I’m gonna get you a lawyer. Jughead and his delightful friend, Betty, were very insistent that you were innocent, and I trust that.”

“I can’t afford a lawyer-”

Cue an exasperated eye roll. “I wouldn’t offer to get you a lawyer and then ask you to pay for them. I’ll cover it.”

“No,” he interrupted. “Absolutely not.”

“Swallow your pride, Jones, and accept help for once in your life. I’m getting you a lawyer, end of discussion. My family has too much money to know what to do with, honestly, it is not an issue.” Shifting her weight on the floor, and, in tern, Max who was sitting on her lap, she continued.

“Also, I’m here for another reason.”

“Which is?”

“Jughead.”

A pointed eyebrow rose. “What about Jughead?”

“When we spoke, he said he was staying with his best friend, the Andrews I believe it was? Anyway, point is, with you in...here, social services are most likely going to be involved soon. Which means that it is highly likely he is going to be sent to a foster home.”

He leant back. “How far away is it,” he asked, already dreading the answer.

“Two towns over. Which is why he’s going to stay with me, if you’d let me.”

He frowned, thumb and forefinger rubbing against the patches where his stubble had grown back particularly rough. “How you planning to do that?”

He was graced with one of her smiles, though one he was far less familiar with, which he wished he didn’t have to be introduced to; thin. Her mouth had practically become a tight-lipped line, and bore little resemblance to an actual joyful smile. To be fair, he reminded himself, their situation had little to be joyful about.

“I think you may already have an idea, Forsythe. The guard certainly helped with hints at our introduction.”

xxxx

“So what exactly do you propose?” Jughead asked, mouth full of burger. Considering how casual Pop’s interior was, or just the general impression of the establishment, it was funny how many times it had been used as a location for critical discussions. He reckoned Pop should rent it out for that specific purpose. The man would make millions in under a day.

The lady sitting opposite him had apparently only arrived in town a couple hours ago, but an invitation to Pop’s via text from someone he’s only met in person once is still an invitation to Pop’s. Plus, she offered to pay the bill.

Halona gave him a wry smile. “Well, you certainly hit the nail on the head more aptly than perhaps you intended.”

The noise that came out of Jughead was an unusual combination between a gag, a cough and a splutter. Truly, a revolutionary advancement in human biological reflexes.   
“You’re going to marry him?” he exclaimed, once he managed to get his bodily functions under control. “My dad?”

It was a wonder that Halona actually heard him, too busy being consumed by pearls of laughter at his reaction.   
“Not quite,” she said, between giggles. “Just officially announce my presence as his fiancée. Funnily enough, it takes really little effort to become someone’s fiancée legally. All I need to is to make it known to social services that I am to be Mrs Jones in the foreseeable future, and then, as I am apart of the family side of custody, I can become your guardian. Then, Forsythe gets out, he becomes your legal guardian again, we pretend that our “engagement” is broken off, I go back to college.”

She took a break to sip on her milkshake (strawberry, to match his choice). “Hell of a lot easier than having to take training to become eligible to foster you.”

“Won’t they question the age difference?”

A flicker of a mock scandalised expression played on her features, as she lifted her hand to her mouth in the perfect display of “shock”.   
“It’s rude to ask a lady for her age, good sir.”    
But then her face morphed back into one of seriousness. “Besides, it’s hardly any of their business. Once you hit 20 or 21, you look as though you are literally any age in your twenties. If anyone does actually require my age, I’ll just say 27 or something. While being over 21, I am actually technically legally recognised as an adult so they can’t really do anything, but a 10 year age gap sounds more reasonable than a 15 one.”

She popped a fry in her mouth. “Simple.”

Jughead wasn’t sure he’d heard right.   
“I’m sorry, but your plan, if asked about anything by officials, is to _lie_?”   
His face had a mind of its own, shifting and twisting, but he knew for sure that it must have created a look of pure incredulousness.   
“What if they, y’know, check? And found out you’ve lied? Then what?”

“Darling, I’m afraid that even if they are not 100% convinced at my face value, likelihood is they won’t ask questions.” She smiled apologetically. “Family connections and money. Never my preferred strategy, but my family’s reputation proceeds them – the authorities know it’s better to just not ask questions.”

“How does that make you any better than the Blossoms then? Using your name to get your own way?”

“When did I ever try to pretend I was better than them?” A long drawn out sip of milkshake. “But also, if you are particularly concerned with that, its all about reputation. I don’t do things such as pay-offs or bribery, God no, but they know my family was last seen working closely with the Blossoms. They’ll think that if they start to look into my case just a _little_ too much, that the Blossoms will be on their case.”   
She shrugged. “Just utilising pre-conceived ideas about myself and twisting them so that it works in out benefit.”

Jughead swallowed uncomfortably. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”   
As someone who held the highest regards for the truth, all the misdirection seemed like he was cheating. The game may have never been fair to him, but he wasn’t a cheater.

Halona sighed. “Me neither kid. And I’ve had a lifetime to get used to far worse trickery.”

She raised her glass in a faux _cheers_. “Drink to a prosperous marriage?”

Jughead smiled despite himself, shook his head, but raised his glass to meet hers anyway. “Not strictly speaking a marriage, though, is it?”

She tossed him a wink, if a little more for effect than genuine light-heartedness.   
“I ain’t making any promises, kid,” she said, mirroring her last parting words with him.  

Her tone suggested otherwise.

 

xxxx

“I ain’t an expert on proposin’, but shouldn’t I get a ring?”

He was directly facing her now, only separated by his personal steel cage. She brushed her lips against her knuckles, where her hands were tightly balled up into fists. Perhaps he was flattering himself, but her action looked as though it was to prevent her from moving closer to him. Or perhaps that was just his ego talking. Seemed more likely.

“One thing at a time, Jones. First, we’ll get you out of here. _Then_ you can choose the flashiest ring you desire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:  
> For those wondering, habibi is a term of endearment in Arabic, which is akin to ‘cherub’ I believe. It is almost positively spelt wrong here, and this is not meant to be seen as any confirmation that Halona’s mother is Arabic, it is just something that my mum would always call me and my sister growing up, and she too worked in all the countries mentioned as well, despite not being Arabic.
> 
> Remember when I was confident I could have this story done by the time the new season was out? Me too. The good ol’ days. 
> 
> Any comments, thoughts or concerns are welcome x  
> \- Alex


	4. The Mystery Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty and Jughead start to hatch a plan of action to move forward. Jughead moves in. Two childhood friends say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no excuse for why this is so late. I'm so sorry.

xxxx

“You got that list of suspects?”

“Rodger.”

“And the various theories I wrote.”

“Check. And we both wrote it, Betts.”

“You read over it. Pens?”

“Obviously. All organised by colour, as per your request.”

“Great.”

Betty took a step back from where her nose had practically been brushing the red strings of their murder board, which she had been regarding with scrutiny. “So now all we need to do is catch a murderer. No biggie.”

She felt the air shift beside her as Jughead crossed his arms and leant against the desk she was perched atop of.  
“And don’t be so quick as to forget the new time limit we are on,” he quipped dryly, chewing his lip as he tapped his fountain pen against his chin thoughtfully.

Betty inclined her head in his general direction, a strained grin added for emphasis. “Well, we wouldn’t this to be too easy, right?”

Pause for deep intake of breath; bridge of nose, pinched. Hard. _It’s all good, it’s all good, everything is under control, you are in control of this, deep breath..._

“Did you speak to Halona about the...trial?”

Aware of how her voice said the last half of the sentence with some trepidation, Betty anticipated his response. Understandably, it was a sensitive subject for her boyfriend, but a brief sidelong glance at his face showed that he didn’t appear too bothered by it. Or, at least, he was hiding how he felt. Which, thinking about it, was probably more likely.

Jughead shrugged. “She reckons a trial will take place around New Years. Something about needing to gather enough evidence to confirm his story and give him enough time to organise a lawyer, should he want to get one.  With us currently in, what, mid October? That gives us a good...”  
His voice trailed off as he quickly totted up the months. “Two and a half months.”

“And we are really looking at two months, possibly less, in case the trial is brought forward for any reason,” Betty chipped in.  
“Such as, we get to close to the identity of the real killer and they pull some strings.”

Jughead looked at her, raised eyebrow in tow. He was rather good at the raised-eyebrow look, if she did say so herself. “You pushing forwad with the theory that it was someone with money and slash or influence?”

The Lodges or the Blossoms.

Betty sighed, crossing her legs and conjuring up her mental checklist. “Well, we believe your dad was protecting something, most likely scenario being he was threatened by someone. And he’s part of a gang, Juggy; only someone with a certain kind of power would be able to hold a convincing threat over the Serpents. Like, not even the Sheriff has that much of a hold on them, even if he wanted to. Those on our murder board with the most money and influence are Hiram Lodge and the Blossoms.”

“So we need to take a closer look at motives and alibis,” Jughead countered. “I understand where you’re coming from, but we can’t go and start accusing anyone on the basis that they have power.” He paused, before filling in what the both of them were thinking, with a softer tone.  
“If we did, we wouldn’t be much better than everyone else who points fingers at the most convenient target, Betts.”

Pausing to take a breath, Betty let her eyes hover the various pictures and tagged names. “I know. Don’t worry, I promise not going to fall into that trap like my parents.”

She could feel Jughead’s eyes on her as she coolly took in all possible suspects they had pinned, a if waiting for her lead. She supposed it was due to her technically being the editor of the _Blue and Gold_ , but she felt a swell of pride wash over her when she realised it was because he looked at her as someone capable to lead their investigation forward. It was nice; no-one had really ever considered her to be an authority figure like that before. Head of a committee, sure, but never because they chose her to lead them. She straightened up, trying her hand at the authoritative role.

“Well, I think we need to work backwards,” she proposed. He looked at her expectantly, so she urged that thought forwards. “From FP, I mean. Look into why he was framed-”

“He was framed because he was an easy target, Betts,” Jughead said tiredly. “It’s not that philosophical.”

Betty flashed an amused look at him. “Something _isn’t_ philosophical? My, how the world as we know it has come crumbling down around us.”  
She spread her arms in mock _halleluiah_.  
“Jughead Jones III thinks something isn’t philosophical!”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, but the tips of his ears gave his shared amusement away, flushing a deep pink.

“And, if you’d let me finish,” she merrily pointed out, making Jughead mutter a quick ‘sorry’. “You would’ve realised where my emphasis was. I want to know why _he_ was framed, and not another serpent. Leads me to think, while he may not have killed Jason, he at least has an inclining at who did. Maybe he was part of the clean up, or was at least in contact with the real killer. And, therefore framing him and putting him in jail...” She trailed off, allowing Jughead the moment to follow where her thought process was leading her.

“Then that would get rid of any witnesses, any final connections between the killer and the crime, as well as give the town the culprit they needed for closure,” Jughead summed up. “With that closure, chances of anyone further looking into the investigations would be as likely as Veronica becoming a nun.”

“Oh, so you think Veronica has a slim chance of becoming a nun?”

“What brought you to the outlandish conclusion that I think that?”

He was glad he asked, because he was rewarded with a fantastic toothy grin from his girlfriend, which she only really did around him, in that very room. Apparently ‘toothy-grins’ were not apart of the official Betty Cooper trademark.  
“Because we are that slim chance that is further looking into an officially closed investigation.”

Jughead smiled back, though there was a distinctive lack of warmth from the gesture. There had been a distinctive lack of warmth from a lot of his gestures recently, Betty thought forlornly. Especially considering how cheerful – well, cheerful for Jughead, at least – he’d been not even two weeks ago.

“Well, you know what they say,” he said, bringing Betty of her thoughts.   

She leaned in closer, a playful smirk twisting across her features, and dropped the pitch of her voice.  
“And what do they say, Mr Jones?”  
If he thought she had missed the way he shivered from her lowered tone, he was seriously mistaken. Betty made a mental note to use that tone when she wanted him to let her have a sip of his milkshake in future rendezvous at Pop’s.

He bit his lip, eyes shining, and looked up through his impossibly long eyelashes at her from where she was perched upon the editor’s desk.  
“That anything is possible?”

Betty snorted slightly, wrinkling her nose jokingly at his choice of words.  
“I hate to break it to you, Jug, but I think you should stick to writing your dialogue. And murder mysteries; romantic one-liners aren’t really your forte.”

Jughead tilted his head in the perfect parody of innocent confusion. “Why, Miss Cooper, are you implying that I’m no good at being romantic?”

A polished and clean manicured index finger carefully rested atop her bottom lip, continuing their private satirical performance , in the exact pantomime of exuberant contemplation. “Hmmm... my professional opinion is that that mouth of yours can be romantic when following my lead. And when it’s not spouting lines that would be better suited for a 90’s rom-com.”

She moved to better kiss him, tilting his chin up gently in what was fast becoming almost second nature. It certainly hadn’t been their first kiss in the _Blue and Gold_ office, but there were definitely elements of their current lip-lock that was similar to their first shared moment, all the way back in Betty’s bedroom. Most notably, that mid way through, Betty’s eyes flew open.  
“I almost forgot something!”

Jughead sighed good-naturedly, resting his forehead against her shoulder. “Is this sudden moment of clarity going to happen every time we kiss?”

“No!” She protested. “But it’s really important, honest. We need to talk to Joaquin.”

The more amicable expression Jughead had been sporting was swiftly exchanged for a face that Betty (and the rest of the world) was far more familiar with: moody. It almost made her regret bringing them back down to earth with the talk of _murder_ and _suspects_ and _lies_.

“Good point. What was it that Halona told us she had been asked to tell him? Forget the plan, or something like that?”

“Yeah,” Betty confirmed. “Sounds like he and FP were both connected to the to this whole thing, in some way.” Her heart sank a little, feeling for her other best friend.  
“Kevin is going to be heartbroken if Joaquin was involved,” she said softly, as though privately voicing her thoughts.

“I know.” Jughead agreed, which touched her. It hadn’t been long since his disastrous birthday, where he had said he didn’t consider Kevin a friend. It was nice to see him taking hesitant steps to including Kevin as his friend after that.  
He laced his fingers through hers. “But we need to get to the bottom of this. And that doesn’t necessarily mean that he assisted in murder, just that he knows more than he’s letting on.”

In an attempt to bring the mood back to the light-heartedness it had only moments ago possessed, Jughead hopped up on the desk next to Betty, and bumped shoulders with her. “Hey. It’s all going to work out.”  
She leant into his frame, grateful for the familiar grounding of his plaid and Levi jacket attire.  
“I’m just tired of everyone in this town lying, Juggie,” she mumbled, words muffled from the fabric. “This murder goes far beyond what either of us thought. I just want the truth, even if it means we have to attempt to solve this ourselves.”

“Attempt?” Jughead kissed her forehead. “That’s not the attitude of my Betty Cooper. We _are_ going to solve this case, Betts. Trust me. We’ll do this in true Hitchcockian fashion, my delightful Hitchcockian blonde.”

Betty giggled into his chest, breathing in the familiar pine-and-smoke-and-soap scent of her boyfriend. “Of course you turned to making a film reference.”

“Of course.”

“Ever the charmer.”

“I do try.”

xxxx

Jughead shifted around in his bed, trying to get comfortable. It wasn’t that it was an uncomfortable bed, per say, but rather just still very unfamiliar. A thought rolled around in his head, annoyingly so, which he just couldn’t shake out with all his tosses and turns.  
_Clearly the Jones’ were just not cut out for luxury. Typical._

  
Finally giving up on an attempt to sleep, he sat up abruptly, muttering curses under his breath at the one time he actually gets a decent place to lie down is the one time he _can’t get to freaking sleep_.

The mirror on the wall opposite his bed still made him jump, his dark, shadowy reflection with hair sticking up in every conceivable direction, creating an effectively creepy outline. He decided right then and there to reposition it. Because he could. Because it was _his_ room. Which, though maybe it shouldn’t’e been, was weird thought in of itself. He’d never really had his own room before (he wasn’t counting the drive in. Technically it had been owned by the town rather than him)

Moving in with a near stranger is perhaps never one of the wisest decisions. And, as Jughead kept minimally scolding himself, something he should’ve learnt by now. Not to say he had any prior experience with doing such a obvious faux par, but he had rather hoped that he would be able to flaunt a vague hint of common sense in the town which decidedly had none.

But, as the other part of his mindful conflict reminded him, he was getting pretty desperate. And he’d spoken to his dad, who assured him that Halona was _fine_ and very _safe_ , which should’ve subdued his wariness. This, however, was coming from a man in jail. So it was a bit more ambiguous to trust the judgement of a man who had ended up in jail. Even Betty, who was practically famous for being Little-Miss-Get’s-On-With-Everyone, had cautiously asked him if he was actually insane going to stay with someone who had been a resident in Riverdale for all of a week. He answered her with the same answer he gave himself; he didn’t really have anywhere else to go.

Anyways, it didn’t matter. He was living with his dad’s sort-of-ex-girlfriend, and his half-brother, and that was that. Actually, Max was pretty incredible. He’d missed acting like an older brother.

Rolling out of his bed, he slumped across his room with only one activity in mind to help him get to sleep; making a snack. Or maybe a meal, he wasn’t particularly fussy.

Padding down the stairs as softly as he could, he let a fingertip trail down the banister in silent awe, admiring the simple exquisiteness of it all (just thinking that made him think of Betty, as he often called her exquisite. After hearing she didn’t like being called perfect, the two of them had started a game where they would use ridiculous terms of affection for each other. It was pleasant.)

As he reached the bottom of the stares, he cast the chandelier, the multiple expensive paintings and plush rugs dubious glances. Talk about sticking out like a sore thumb.

After a moment of private observation in the entrance hall, however, Jughead’s ears pricked up a the soft disturbance of the ghostly silence that had settled over the house like a ghoulish comforter.

Music. There was music playing. Ever so barely, but definitely present.

Creeping closer and closer to the kitchen, he realised it was steadily getting louder, and felt his body instinctively tense up, ready to fulfil his fight or flight response to the unknown, potential intruder (it took a bit longer for his rationality to kick in, which was tiredly pointing out that if an intruder was playing music, then they should probably consider a different occupation).

Tentatively, Jughead pushed the door open, but immediately relaxed when he saw the familiar outlines of the only two other obvious entities that could be in his kitchen – Max sitting on a breakfast bar stool slurping a glass of water, Halona with a bowl of cereal as she inspected the cupboards. Starting at the creak of the door, Halona spun around quickly, dropping a spoon she was holding out of surprise, eyes wide. She too visibly relaxed once she saw who was in the door way.

“God, sorry, you surprised me.” Then her eyebrows knitted together, as she looked at him concerned. “We didn’t wake you, did we?”

“Nope,” Jughead said truthfully, poking Max playfully in the cheek, causing him to squeal a giggle, as he headed to the fridge. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Halona retrieved her spoon from the floor, and throwing it into the sink before sinking into the stool beside Max. “Us neither.”  

A slightly awkward silence broke out between the two of them, which Jughead tried to cover up by pretending to be fascinated by the fridge’s contents (milk and a few eggs). He opted for the milk, ears picking up more distinctive parts of the music that had been playing as he went to make a bowl of cereal.

“Chris Isaac, huh?”

Halona glanced at him, mildly impressed. “Good ear, you got there.”

“Good taste,” he retorted, and he plonked himself onto the last breakfast bar stool, opposite from his gracious new sort-of guardian. “One of my favourite songs.”

She hesitantly shot him a small smile. “One of mine, too.”

Their relationship was a strange one, to say the least. Neither really particularly knew how to act around each other, with Halona opting for a half-hearted attempt at a sort of step mum, and Jughead stubbornly sticking to treating her how he saw her; like the girl who was just a few years older than himself who had got off with his dad a couple years ago. Not that he treated her unkindly. Just with more trepidation.

For a blissful passage, all that could be heard was the soft harmonic warbles of Chris Isaac and the appreciative chewing of cereal. Jughead made a careful mental note – _silences were less awkward if they both ate during them_.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Jug.”

He lifted his head from where he was slumped over his bowl. Halona had her head buried into her hands, curly copper locks sticking up like little corkscrews.

Swallowing his mouthful of overly sugary mush, Jughead shrugged nonchalantly. “I didn’t really think you did, if I’m honest.”

She lifted her head, tiredly smiling a knowing, wry smile. “You mean I don’t make a convincing functioning adult?”

He felt a small grin tug at his lips. “I could pretend to be surprised, if it would help keep your ego intact."

She nodded, lips pressed together humorously. “That would be very considerate of you, thank you.”

The music playlist shuffled on; Tracy Chapman strummed into existence.

“Why did you come? You left the hassle that is Riverdale years ago, I know not so many are that lucky, and you still came back?” That was something that Jughead still didn’t properly understand. Given the chance, he would like to think that he would be well clear of the town for a fresh start in a bigger city. Maybe. Or maybe that was wistful thinking. He chose to think more optimistically for once.

Halona frowned. “Because otherwise you would’ve been carted off to foster care and Forsythe would’ve been falsely sent to prison.”

“But you don’t _know_ us. Not really.”

A flicker of an uncomfortable expression flashed briefly across Halona’s features, a flicker of hurt, and Jughead felt a little bad for saying that. Nevertheless, he stuck to what he said.

“I...came...” Halona started slowly, rubbing her bare arms where they had started to get goosepimples. “Because I knew I could do something to help. And, although I haven’t seen Forsythe in years, that’s true, and I wasn’t expecting to return...at all, really, after the both of you had called me, I knew I could do something to help. And I knew that if I just ignored it, pretended that I couldn’t help, that I would regret it.  
“Besides,” she continued, smoothing Max’s curls down. “I didn’t want Max to have his Dad in prison.” She shot him a knowing look.  
“And I didn’t want that for you, either.”

The music shuffled again. Roy Orbison.

“Thank you.” Jughead was surprised himself at how sincere that had come out. “Really. Thank you. For everything”

She regarded him fondly (if a little condescendingly, but he didn’t point it out as to not lose the touching moment). “No problem.”

They clinked cereal bowls.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

xxxx

“I just popped in to say goodbye.”

FP waved his hand as though greeting a monarch. “So blessed by your presence, I am.”

Mary snorted. “Well that would be a first.”

She crossed the room to face him. “We’ve really messed up this time, haven’t we Pen?”

FP scratched at the rough stubble on his chin. “Been a long time since you’ve called me that.”

“I suppose it has.”

“Not so long that I’ve forgotten yours.”

“Don’t even try it, Pen.”

“You know I ain’t gonna, calm down.”

“’Ain’t’. Jesus, how the tables have turned.” Mary dragged over a bitterly cheap foldup chair, and sat herself facing her old friend through unforgiving bars.  
“Remember when you could tell me off whenever I used slang? You especially hated it when I said ‘ain’t’.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you said it all the flipping time, just to piss me off.”

“And yet here we are, in a strange twist of irony.”

“Well, we’re ain’t kids no more. A lot’s changed.”

“Tell me about it – Mr Lord Muck here grew up to start speaking like how I did.”

“Pfft, you ain’t sounded like this! Your folks woulda skinned you if you spoke like this, all common an’ the like.”

Mary allowed herself to grin with him, allowed herself to reminisce about what had been, despite the circumstances.

“I’m almost nostalgic for it all.”

“Crikey, are you? I sure as hell ain’t.”

“ _Almost_ nostalgic, Pen. _Almost_.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hmm?”

“You wouldn’t be...well, in here, if I hadn’t-“

“Christ, don’t tell me you’re blaming yourself for all this. This was all Cliff, pure and simple. Well. Maybe a bit of Lady Blossom, too. I ain’t gonna put it past her.”

“He’s always been a slimy git, hasn’t he? As for Lady Blossom... God, it's almost as if she’s a whole other person .”

“Well, that’s not _that_ far off...”

“Shut it, Pen.”

“I’m shuttin’ it, I’m shuttin’ it... How much longer d’ya reckon?”

“What?”

“’Til they sniff you out?”

“Until who sniffs me out?”

“Them kids. I’m telling you, their gettin’ far to close for their own good, doin’ better than the fuckin’ Sheriff, ‘though that’s not hard to beat.”

“Why do you think I’m leaving now? I tried to persuade Archie to come, but he’s too tubborn to leave Fred behind.”

“Sounds like him, yeah. You know, you can’t run from this forever, P.”

“I know.”

“But you’re still gonna.”

“For now.”

She stood up to leave, neatly folding up the chair. “Tell your fiancée I said hello.”

“She’s not...”

Mary waved a hand, cutting him off. “Until next time, Pen. Hopefully, not like this.”

FP gave a two fingered salute. “One can only hope, P-.”

She stopped her path to the exit, twisting her head around to glare at him. “Don’t you dare.”

“Just messin’ with you.”

“Well stop it. Goodbye”

And with a swish of her modestly priced coat, she was gone.

xxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:  
> I actually thought I would have the whole story finished by now. I was evidently wrong.  
> Songs referenced in the chapter are  
> Wicked Games - Chris Isaac  
> Fast Car - Tracy Chapman  
> Pretty Woman - Roy Orbison  
> But Season 2 tomorrow (exciting), and with new starts, I’m taking a brief moment to say something that I feel needs to be addressed a bit more in this fandom. Actually, a couple things.  
> First off: So I’ve sort of been in this fandom since like early February, so pretty near it’s inception, and I’ve seen this time, and time, and time again.  
> You may ship characters on this show – cool. Nice. Wonderful. I certainly do.  
> Shitting on people for who they ship is not cool nor what this fandom should represent.  
> Whether you like Bughead, Beronica, Jarchie, Barchie, Cheronica, Varchie, whatever it is, be respectful to others who will not have the same ship as you.  
> Secondly: shipping the characters is fun. Great. Nice. You can ship the actors behind those characters, as long as you are respectful of their privacy.  
> Taking photos without those being photographed being aware they are being photographed, when they are in their private time, so not on screen or if you ask for a photo and they say yes, is not cool nor what this fandom should represent.  
> I’m sure most people know which two actors in particular I’m talking about, and to my knowledge both have said they don’t like people taking photos of them without their knowledge and have asked people not to do that. And even if I’m wrong, and they haven’t explicitly said that, it is the most uncomfortable and freaky thing, someone you’ve never even met taking your photo without your knowledge to only then find out later once photographs you didn’t even know existed are plastered all over the internet.  
> These actors are playing very beloved characters, and playing relationships which people adore. However, taking sneaky photos of your favs without their knowledge is not respecting their wishes, and in turn, not respecting them as individuals and their right to privacy.  
> I’m sorry for the long note, but I felt that there needed to be a little PSA. This fandom should respect others within the community and respect it’s creators, because without them, there would be no show or fandom to speak of.  
> Any thoughts, comments or concerns are welcome x  
> \- Alex


	5. I Confess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visits to past connections. Plans are made.

 

xxxx

In a conservatory, Frank Sinatra was playing softly. Occasionally it juddered from the retro status of the record it was playing off of, but never so much as to distract from his old time melodic tone. Soft beams of light refracted perfectly across the room, the glass expertly positioned, leading observers to suspect that the whole room was constructed to entertain that ethereal aspect. The botanical centre pieces were, unsurprisingly, clipped to perfection. But then again, there was little else to be expected from the reputable Thornhill.  
Halona took a seat on one of the offered antique stools, and attempted a smile in the farce of polite company.

“Thank you for taking time out in your busy schedule to invite me over for tea, Mrs Blossom.”

Said lady smiled back in response, though it was stretched so tightly across her already thin lips that the outcome resembled more of a pained grimace. Penelope Blossom was famous for those sorts of expressions. Despite the traditionally warm gesture, her eyes remained as cold and unforgiving as steel. She gestured to the table before them which was sparsely decorated with modest morsels of what was probably the fanciest finger food that she could possibly fathom being presented with. In all her time meeting similarly wealthy individuals, Mrs Blossom was perhaps the only American lady to opt for a more English tradition when attending to her guests.

“Come, now. Afternoon tea is the proper way for us ladies to properly catch up. It’s be so long, hasn’t it? 2 years?”  
Her words positively dripped with her own, unique, saccharine kind of venom. Two steaming cups were poured into priceless porcelain cups, and, ever the proper hostess, Penelope pushed forwards the condiments for her company to adjust the strong beverage to her taste.

Halona measured out the correct proportions for her preferred sugared sweet tea, never once dropping a hard gaze, expertly matching the older woman’s.   
“3 actually, I believe.”

If Penelope had been more akin to something more human, she would’ve laughed at this moment. Over the years, however, her way of expressing her amusement was to lightly exhale through the nose with a smug expression in regards to whatever she found to be so terribly comedic.

“Oh, but of course, you _would_ remember more clearly than I would, wouldn’t you?” Pathetic, thinly veiled attempted insults were, admittedly, her speciality.

Halona raised an eyebrow (a week of living with Jughead had unconsciously resulted in a more frequent usage of her brows for an additional, if frivolous, dramatic flair). “And what exactly are you insinuating with that, Mrs Blossom?”

Penelope paused before answering to delicately blow on her tea, perhaps to appear more elusive, perhaps to add a theatrical pause, or perhaps to honestly cool the liquid. Perhaps even all three; the most likely scenario.

“You didn’t think that we would catch drift of the gossip that’s going around this town? I didn’t expect for a young mother to forget how long ago it’s been since her own child’s conception. It was in this very town, after all, was it not? When your family last visited?”

Afternoon tea, ladies, gentlemen, and all those outside and in-between, is indeed an occasion for people to attend in order to catch up over delicious hot teas, accompanied by a selection of delectable sweet and savoury snacks. They are not, however, designed for one party to attack another with invasive and uncomfortable questions.

Halona felt her own mouth set into a rigid line, but she had the decency not to even try to pretend that she was attempting a smile. Tiny threads of anger laced themselves through her body, furious at how Penelope had tried not only to insult her, but to bring her son into something that she had no right in getting him into.

“Mrs Blossom, I would highly recommend that you keep your accusations about me and my son out of our _catching up_.”

“Penelope, please,” she said, placing down her cup on the coffee table before them. “We’re not strangers.” She smiled again, though this time as though she were entertaining the idea of playing with her prey. “Far from it I would say.”  
Checking the teapot for warmth, she poured the two of them fresh cups.   
“At one point,” she continued, eyes flashing dangerously at her over their beverages. “We could’ve even been family.”

Of course. The little titbit of information Halona hadn’t actually told Jughead. Or FP, for that matter. Halona quickly swallowed some fresh tea, counting on the scalding sensation to burn away all the nausea that threatened to come out. There had been talk between the Ridgemounts and Blossoms about potential _marriage_ between herself and their son, the now infamously deceased, Jason Blossom. Thankfully, the idea had been shut down pretty quickly, due to Elena Ridgemount quickly intervening to remind them that arranged marriages were not in alignment with either family’s preferred method of securing deals, and perhaps that they should stick with business arrangements.  
Seventeen year old her had been thankful for that, seeing how Jason then was a pale, knobbly, sickly sort of kid, feeble at his grand age of thirteen, who spoke as though he had more authority in a room than he actually did. Present day her was even more thankful, as she was fairly sure that if she were to marry into the insanity that was the Blossoms, she wouldn’t’ve been saved from their gothic horror. She was certain she would’ve fallen into complete madness, in traditional distressed gothic heroine fashion.

That had actually been the reason she went out the night she met FP for the first time, she suddenly realised with a start. Plucked from her subconscious, the glowing memory of her figure sneaking out to metaphorically escape the spidery prison of the Blossom family, and escape any more possible connections with the lot of them, burned with a warm familiarity.   
_Funny how things turn out,_ she thought to herself dryly, reaching for the milk.

“So imagine my surprise...” Penelope was still talking, smoothly stirring her tea hypnotically, her voice sharpening to an even harder edge than before, if that were possibly conceivable. “When I hear that you’ve been, not only with, but _engaged_ to FP Jones this whole time.”

_Ah,_ Halona noted, spooning more sugar into her drink. _There it is_.

“And that you’re working to get the confessed murderer of our own _son_ out of jail.” All pretence of an amicable conversation had drained away, with Penelope sat as regal as a queen in her own villainous fortress, looking down to pass final judgement on the perceived traitor in her midst.   
“Imagine my surprise,” she repeated, practically spitting out the words at this point.

Halona thought about her word selection very carefully, before producing a response.

“It _is_ extraordinary the lengths we go to, to keep our loved ones out of jail, wouldn’t you agree Penelope?” There was no attempt to mask her sarcasm.

She didn’t actually have any concrete proof or knowledge that the Blossoms had actually done anything illegal, as her pointed comment suggested. She didn’t need to. The  family were rich and powerful – _of course they had_.

Her words had a wonderfully poisonous effect; Penelope’s face had faded to a hue reminiscent of an ashen grey, and when Halona was quite sure she wouldn’t continue their conversation, she sat down her cup and stood up.

“Forgive me for rudely cutting our chat short, but I simply must visit the ladies.”

With that, she strode out of the room, internally smirking at the look on the pitiful woman’s face.

xxxx

“So Joaquin huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Shit,” Betty agreed, screwing the top of the nail varnish she had just been brandishing as Veronica wiggled her toes appreciatively, newly painted a deep mulberry red. Neither girl had been let off lightly to paint their nails, _shock horror_ , without the expected militant drilling from Alice Cooper warning them both about spilling a drop of the stuff on any conceivable surface present in Betty’s room.

Veronica hugged one of Betty’s baby pink throw cushions, and pouted in her quintessentially Veronica way (although she would’ve tried to deny that she pouted like a child to hell and back).

“How does Kevin manage to pick the one other guy to possibly be involved in a murder to be his boyfriend,” she sighed, flopping back onto Betty’s comforter dramatically.

Betty poked the sole of her foot, causing the Very Dramatic Girl No.1 to squirm. “Oh sure, he definitely went up to this guy and asked ‘just to be clear, my gorgeous friend wants to make sure, but have you been engaged in any murders lately?’”

“Well, this is why you do a background check on everyone you want to get involved with!” countered Veronica, rolling onto her stomach to examine her friend’s dismal selection of nail polishes at a more preferable angle. “Especially if they live in this fucking dystopian town.”

 “Well...” Betty started, before realising that she couldn’t really argue that their town was exactly as peachy keen as everyone (bar Veronica) pretended it was, so she settled for, rather lamely, “It used to be...nicer.”

The brunette cocked an eyebrow, disbelievingly. “And the five star reviews are rolling in.”    
She held up a dusty rose shade. “Are we thinking of staying on brand, Miss Cooper?”

Considering her options, the aforementioned Miss Cooper hummed as she let her nail trace over the few glass bottles resting on her bedspread, gently clinking, before coming to rest on the newest purchase; an impossibly dark midnight blue.

“Ooh,” Veronica crowed, clearly pleasantly surprised. “Well, she’s just full of surprises!”   
This earned her a playful shove, resulting in giggles and a half-hearted poke war between the two of them, and Betty allowed herself to revel in the good natured, goofy _wholeness_ of the moment.

With murders and accusations buzzing around their town every which way, Betty had almost forgotten what it felt like to relax with a friend, doing something as arbitrary as painting nails.   
In the soft pastel shades of her room, with autumn evening darkening the sky, whatever playful, current pop playing on the radio and chatting with her best friend, she felt probably most at peace than she had for a long time. Because even before Jason’s murder, even before all the pestilence that issue brought with it, Riverdale hadn’t been the idyllic haven she had so desperately wanted it to be. Jason had been the catalyst, but the town had been rotting for far longer than a few months. Behind every door, every lace trimmed curtain, every nuclear family cereal box appeal, there had been the unmistakable stench of countless despicable things. Putrid decay. Deceit. Buried truths. Cowardice. Feeble morals.

And she was _sick_ of it. Absolutely _sick, sick, sick_ of it. Maybe that’s why she cared so much about solving Jason’s murder. Because Betty Cooper was on a war path, exposing the pathetic characters behind all the town’s dishonesty and quick judgement, and Lord help anyone who dare intervene.

“B... would you mind if I came tomorrow?”

So wrapped up in the deep expanse of her own mind, Betty had failed to notice how quiet her friend had become. Uncharacteristically so, with even a hesitant note in her voice and her pretence that her entire focus was on painting Betty’s toenails.

“To talk to Joaquin?”

Veronica nodded. She finished her handiwork with a final glob of dark polish, and screwed the lid back on with, again, not-quite-so-honest intent staring at her task.

“Well, you know...just in case- with my dad, I mean.” Veronica wriggled uncomfortably, not meeting Betty’s eyes. “I...I just need closure. I need to know if me and my mom are welcoming a murderer back into our family.”

“I know. Of course you can come.”

Veronica blinked, and looked up, clearly surprised at the response she got. Betty had a strong inkling as to why, as well. It hadn’t been that long since both Archie and Veronica had gone behind her and Jughead’s back to search FP’s trailer for evidence, after all, hut Betty could empathise. More than even she thought initially. Veronica just wanted the truth, same as her. And she could relate with the need, edging  into near crazed hunger for peace of mind about the whole ordeal.

Veronica smiled at her, took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. “Thanks, B.”

“Don’t mention it.” She held up a dark purple polish, and grinned. “Now, for fingernails, this or the red to match?”

xxxx

Even the bathroom could’ve been a miniature castle. Halona shook her hands free of the water droplets running down her fingertips, and mentally shook her head as well. When she had visited last, her mother hadn’t found the more exuberant interior design choices of Thornhill to her taste, agreeing with her husband that there was a difference between money and class, and that the gothic family only had one of the two.  
It appeared they hadn’t changed in the 3 years in had been between her house calls; the Blossoms continued to favour flaunting their wealth in showy, distasteful ways. And the bathroom hadn’t been spared.

She opened the door to exit the toilet, and crept into the hallway. Creeping was apparently the only way one could get around the place, as everywhere you went deathly silence would follow you. With a house as old as theirs, she’d expected creaking floorboards, groaning doors, maybe the haunting chime of a grandfather clock. Instead, she was presented with the wholly unnerving _stillness_. As though she had to hold her breath in an attempt not to disturb the air.   
Prickles of a slight draught trickled down the back of Halona’s neck, invoking an involuntary shiver, as she continued to stalk the corridor, deliberately taking her time, soaking up every detail she could. Particularly to postpone her inevitable reunion with a potentially filicidal family.

She hadn’t put it past them yet.

Perhaps it would’ve been seen as moronic to voluntarily visit a people she suspected of murder, sure, Forsythe had certainly thought so. And maybe she was holding onto the fact that they wouldn’t try to pull anything on her due to the fact that they knew her family, but she decided not to dwell on it.  
Blind faith; why not. It was just becoming that sort of day.

Her eyes flickered around, taking in potential leads (is that what investigators did? Search for clues?), eyeing up the several doors she passed. A gentle try at the door handles revealed most of the doors to be locked, and she certainly hadn’t come equipped to pick locks – namely, she didn’t actually know how to. But then, she reminded herself, would they’ve just had a room dubbed ‘evidence’ and dumped all the incriminating items in there and locked the door? Doubtful was the most optimistic she could get.

Halona, feeling any sense of finding anything useful deflating pretty quickly, tried the last door, expecting the now familiar tug of resistance and soft metallic _clink_.

It glided open.  

Halona frowned. Then tried the doorknob again, slower this time. It smoothly  swung open again, but she felt what she was looking for the second time round. Twisting the doorknob, it was slack, and loose. She crouched down so that she could better examine the lock, tracing the knackered metal with her fingertip, uneasiness building up in her throat.   
The lock had been busted open. Not by opened by a lockpick, but actually busted.

Who would lock a door, in their own house, and then bust it open later? If maybe the door was locked and other family members wanted to sneak in, surely they would do it as discretely as possible?

The room itself didn’t appear to be particularly mysterious, just a standard study, if with the trademark Blossom exuberance. A lamp softly glowed in one of the corners, partially illuminating a pin-neat desk adorned with leather bound books, folders, photographs; again, nothing spectacular.

Slowly she stepped inside, watching the shadows curl and snarl around an ornate bookcase and a standing globe from the light of the hallway, as she pushed the door further open.

“They lock these doors to keep me out, you know.”

Halona whirled around, heart thuddering painfully in throat, at the unexpected voice from the shadows. An ominous creak followed, as the unexpected voice revealed themselves. It was an elderly woman, slowly moving herself forward in a wheelchair, eerily blinking up at Halona revealing glass-like eyes, one baby blue in colour, and the other a misty white.

“They don’t like me wandering off. Too many secrets, this house has.” The woman cackled heartily, as though that were the funniest thing she’d ever heard, gleefully slapping the arm of her armchair.

“But Nana Rose always has her way of getting in! Those fools, thinking they’ve got the better of me.” She became wistful for a moment, leaving Halona to still just stare at the woman, and desperately try to calm her erratic pulse from the unappreciated jump scare the crone had provided.

“My dear Penny...” she murmured, leading Halona to assume she was talking about Penelope Blossom. “Oh, she was ever so good, she was. Why, I still keep a photo of her close! They try to hide them away, of course, but I always manage to steal them back.”

_She’s mad_ , Halona thought, faintly, sinking into the plush desk chair as Nana Rose rummaged in her pockets. _Completely bonkers_.

“Ah, here we are!” the crone proudly presented it to her company, gesturing for Halona to take it. Not wishing to cross the lady who had broken into her own home, occasionally talked in third person, and was talking as though her daughter who was sitting downstairs was long gone, she complied.

“My darling Penny, just a little slip of a thing back then!”

Three children were standing stiffly next to each other, two girls and a boy, all dressed in stuffy, formal clothes, only around ten years old. She assumed one of the girls was Penelope Blossom, but both were as red-headed and slight as each other, it was hard to determine which one it was. Whichever one wasn’t her was probably Penelope’s cousin, or something along those lines, seeing how they looked so similar. The boy was clearly the most bored of the three, a shock of dark hair slicked back in an unflattering manner, but it was very apparent that it was unlikely that he was related to the two girls.

She flipped the photo over, looking for any information about the time or subjects in the photo. Disappointingly, it was blank.

“The Blossom lineage is matriarchal, you know.”

Halona looked back up to Nana Rose, who had moved so that she was examining the photos on the desk, lip curled in distaste.

“It always has been, and yet that buffoon stomps around as though he is head of the family.”

_Clifford Blossom?_

“That’s...unfortunate,” Halona said hesitantly, unsure how to respond to the elderly woman spouting out random pieces of information. She sure as hell didn’t know how to respond when Nana Rose suddenly moved as though she’d been struck by lightning, shot out and grabbed her hands in a vice-like grip.

“Don’t let them get away with it! Promise me, promise me that you won’t let them get away with it!”

Her blue eye and white misty eye were trained on Halona, burning with a sort of intent that Halona had scarce seen before. She nodded, if mostly out of surprise and to keep the old woman happy.

“I promise! I promise,” she said hurriedly, even if she wasn’t quite sure what she exactly was promising to.

The woman froze; not with any particular emotion, just more eerily as thought time had just simply stopped around her, and she loosened her grip.

“I would get out of their house, if I were you. They don’t like Nana Rose sneaking around, the certainly won’t like a stranger sneaking around. But don’t worry!” Nana Rose mimicked zipping her lips. “Nana Rose won’t tell. She’ll keep your secret. But don’t forget your promise! Keep that photograph as a reminder of what you promised!”

Halona nodded, quickly standing up and heading for the door.   
“I won’t forget,” she agreed, pocketing the photo before making her way to escape from the ghoulish haunting of Thornhill for good.

xxxx

“I’m telling you, they’re all completely mad.”

_“Funny enough, that notion doesn’t come as a shock to me_. _”_

Despite her only audience on the other side of a phone line, Halona rolled her eyes. “As always, Jug, your dry sarcasm isn’t really helping.”

“ _From the woman who complimented that exact dry sarcasm just earlier this morning, I call hypocrisy.”_

“I said it had potentially comedic aspects! For certain situations!” Halona hopped into Jughead’s truck (still technically Forsythe’s, come to think of it) which was neatly parked in the Blossom’s overly elaborate driveway. Since living together, just under two weeks at this point, he had grudgingly given her a spare pair of keys, as a sort of ‘thank you’ for his current living arrangement. She started up the ignition, and pressed the phone to her ear using her shoulder, freeing up a hand to readjust the overhead mirror.  
“Amazingly, this isn’t one of those situations!”

There was a deep, drawling sigh on the other line, and Halona had absolutely not a trace of doubt in her mind that the squirt was being deliberately overly theatrical just to annoy her.

_“Thank God I have you to handily point out correct situations to properly be sarcastic.”_

She scoffed, quickly tapped the speakerphone button and threw the phone onto the dash. Maybe not the most technically legal action, but she figured she was probably good for now; Riverdale had truly became somewhat of a lawless zone, so to speak.

“Whatever, smartass.”

Their strange relationship had evolved into something a whole lot more comfortable, thankfully, as Halona was very aware of the palpable awkwardness of two relative strangers living together under more than special circumstances. Sure, in her gut she knew it was the right thing to do, but still. She felt weird about living with the kid of an old flame who was only a few years younger than herself, and was sure that he felt the same about some girl who had boned his dad once.

But, as always, a little midnight bonding over bowls of cereal and only one partial breakdown, and they had both fallen into a familiar routine with each other; mutually exchanged affectionate insults.

“Where are you anyway? It’s getting late, I’ll pick you up.”

_“You’re really nosy, you know that?”_

“Really? You’re trying to tell me that I’m nosy?”

_“If we can get Pop’s, we’ve got a deal_.”

“Seriously?” Halona quickly thrust a hand out to the dashboard to prevent her phone from going flying across the truck. Reversing apparently was too much for the stability to handle.

_“Uh-huh.”_ Over the phone, she could hear various tinny electronic _booms!_.

“Nice try, kid, I can hear the videogame. See you at Archie’s in five.”

_“How do you even know the way_?”

“Small town. It wasn’t that hard.”

xxxx

Archie Andrews, Halona decided, as she was ushered into the kitchen with earnest questions such as _would you like a drink Miss Ridgemount?_ , was the actual living epitome of the American Dream. Except far less toxic.

Jock, athletic, build like a tank, respectable to guests and welcoming. He was like one of those poster boy in those little handbooks that were everywhere in the 50s about how to be the Perfect American kid, dimpled cheeks and said things like _gee whiz!_ and the like. Even his teeth fitted the Perfect American image.

“No drink, thanks,” she said warmly, shrugging out of her coat. “Jughead should take long collecting his things.”

Archie raised his eyebrows. It was only then she noticed the tiny scar in between them. Probably received saving a cat from a tree, or whatever other _Pleasantville_ shenanigans she could fathom. “You have met Jughead, right?”

She laughed, unwrapping her scarf from around her neck. “Point taken.”

Archie smiled. He was most likely the only citizen in the whole town wasn’t particularly bothered that _FP’s_ _fiancée_  had mysteriously materialised, or was just appreciative that someone was helping his buddy out. He was wondrously clear cut that way, with the sort of moral of _you did something good? great!_

“Oh, you dropped something.”

Archie had already dove into action before Halona had even processed what had happened, bending down to where something had fluttered out of her coat pocket when she had removed it. When he straightened up, his thumb and forefinger pinched the corner of the photograph the insane crone, Nana Rose, had give her.

“Hey!” Archie’s eyes widen, almost comically. She imagined one of those cartoon lightbulbs hovering above his head lighting up. “I know this picture!”

That was probably one of the most unlikely things Halona anticipated coming out of that boy’s mouth. “Wait, you do?”

How did Archie Andrews recognise something that she had received from Thornhill?

He nodded. “Yeah, my mum had a copy on her desk before she moved out.”

“What?” She frowned, confused at that. “How come?”

Archie snorted softly, as if to point out the obvious that she was completely missing. “Maybe because she’s in it? That’s her in the middle.”

Halona slowly moved her eyes from staring in disbelief at the kid, to following where he was pointing. One of the red-haired girls. With the other being Penelope Blossom. Which, again, didn’t make any sense, as far as she’d heard via Jughead, the Andrews and the Blossoms were hardly very chummy.

“Do you know who the other two kids are?” she asked slowly, eyes flicking back up to him, gaging his reaction. He only shrugged blithely.

“No, they’re just a couple of kids my mum knew when she was a kid, she grew up out of state.”

_So his mum didn’t tell him_. _But why?_ Halona flipped the photograph over, running her finger over the back, as if willing it to reveal itself

Her fingernail caught on the smallest of ridges. A small patch of the back which felt unusually chalky compared to the surrounding card. _Victory_.

_Scrape. Scraape._

“So...how did you come about this photo anyway?” Archie asked, as his guest had opted to focus all her attention on furiously scraping the back of the photograph with a thumbnail, picking up bits of a dusty white substance.

She showed no signs that she had heard him. Or Jughead, for that matter, when he bounded down the stairs and announced his presence by saying “What I miss?”

Halona had gone very quiet, responding by only pushing over the now-scraped clean photograph, revealing cursive writing that someone had tried to cover up.

_Summer, 19**_

_Penelope Blossom, Mary Bolt, Forsythe Pendleton II_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any comments, thoughts and concerns are welcome x  
> \- Alex


	6. Murder!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joaquin DeSantos finally is questioned about his connection to the ongoing murder investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no excuse good enough to explain why this took just over four months to produce.
> 
> Further info at the bottom, including info for a small competition I’m holding (I guess?)

 

xxxx

“’Don’t bring my boyfriend into this’ I think is what I said,” Kevin grumbled, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket pockets.   
“In fact, that might have been my _exact_ wording. And what do you do? Bring my flipping boyfriend into this.”

 A designated interrogation gang of Betty, Veronica and Kevin had banded together, the crisp Saturday morning proving just how quickly the town was moving away from fall and settling into winter. The abrupt decline in the temperature, the sharp chill that clung to their faces and nipped at their fingers, the tentative frigid frost that hung in the air, making every breath they took thick, and laboured.

“It’s positively gelid,” Veronica had declared proudly, when she and Betty had been bundling up at the Cooper residence before meeting with their third party member. “It means freezing. I’m fully taking on the role of journalist with you for this little...expedition.”

‘Expedition’ would lead one to believe that they were perhaps going on a charming winter outing; not going to drill a gang member about his connection to an ongoing murder case. However, since Alice Cooper was present at the time, Betty didn’t mention this. She was positively sure that letting slip the true intention of their outing would’ve resulted in immediate incarceration for the rest of her mortal life.

“It’s for the best, Kev,” Betty offered up, linking her heavily bundled up arm through his equally insulated one, giving him a gentle squeeze. “And you know, maybe we’ve got nothing to worry about. Maybe he just knows something we don’t, it doesn’t mean-”

“Doesn’t mean he’s involved with an ongoing murder case?” Kevin finished, glumly.

“I, um...well, yeah...”

He shot her a withered look.

“All I wanted was a boyfriend, preferably not a positive criminal.”

“Don’t know what you expected from a gang member, but whatever,” Veronica muttered, readjusting her scarf into what was undoubtedly the most current fashion trend.

Betty, elbowed her, glaring. “ _Not_ helping, V.”  
She got raised eyebrows and a shrug as a response, as if to say _what? It’s true._

Kevin just waved her comment off. “No, she’s right, Betty. Gang member, criminal.”

“ _Potential criminal._ ”

“Oh Betty.” Kevin patted the arm that was looped through his, and sighed. “Please never loose your insatiable optimism. The world won’t be able to take it.”

xxxx

The Ridgemount mansion in Toronto stood silent and stilled. Dust was beginning to creep into the corners, feather coat the mantle piece, catch the mid morning winter sun as it streamed through expansive French windows.   
With family members absent on vacations and away pursuing education, no one was present to hear the arrive of a bicycle.   
Or hear the _clink!_ of the brass letter slot.  
Or see the crisp, white envelope land on the doormat.   
Addressed to _Mr Igor & Mrs Elena Ridgemount_, in stark, deep crimson.

 

xxxx

Betty had, for sure, been in uncomfortable situations before.   
Growing up in the household that she did, passive aggressive quips between her parents, her parents and Polly, her parents and herself, were virtually unavoidable. She had thought that she’s developed a sort of shield to it, often as a child imagining that she was tucked away behind a suit of armour where all tones of nastiness bounced harmlessly off.

Freezing to her bones, meeting with Joaquin outside the Serpent hang out of the Whyte Wyrm, she wished she was able to give Kevin one of his own.

Veronica was faring similar to her. Mouth pressed into a hard line, eyes darting from Kevin (who was looking to the space just above his boyfriend’s elbow) to Joaquin (who was looking very pointedly at the floor), rocking on her heels, apparently not trusting herself to say anything just yet.

Joaquin blew out a stream of grey smoke through the side of his mouth, and threw his cigarette to the underside of his boot.

“Some lady calling me on the phone within the past month?” He ground his foot down on the cigarette butt. “Yep. About three weeks ago now.”

Kevin started nodding, jaw setting into a tight, almost-grimace, and shoved his hands further into his pockets. “And she passed along the message from Mr Jones to ‘forget the plan?’”

“Yep.” Retrieving a small switch blade from his pocket, he started flicking it open and closed, in what appeared to be a way to keep his hands occupied.

Crunching in the loose pebbles surrounding them, Kevin twisted away from his boyfriend, closed his eyes and pinched his nose. He was quiet for some time, something that did not go unnoticed by everyone around him, the silence practically crushing them, thick with tension.

“Joaquin.” Said boy’s head jerked up, but chose to focus his line of sight onto the roar of motorbikes that were happening on the road behind them, rather than actually looking at Kevin.

“Joaquin,” Kevin continued, his mouth moving slowly, as if every word he produced was labouring. “I’m not going to be talking to you now as your boyfriend. I’m going to be talking to you as the Sheriff’s son.”

Finally, the two of them actually looked each other in the eye. Joaquin’s mouth twitched at the corners, pulling his expression into a resigned one. He flicked the knife closed. “I know.”

Kevin didn’t miss a beat. “Do you have anything to do with Jason Blossom’s death.”

Joaquin flinched. Hard.

“Oh. So you do,” Kevin filled in. Everyone had the decency to pretended that they didn’t hear his voice crack. Veronica took a step to place her hand on his arm, but Betty tugged her back gently.   

“Not our moment, V,” she mumbled under her breath. Surprisingly, Veronica didn’t object, and instead just inclined her head in agreement before sliding back to where she stood next to Betty.

“I didn’t kill him,” Joaquin quickly assured them all. “I swear I wasn’t apart of _that_.”

A loud sniff from Kevin effectively communicated what they were all thinking of _that’s still not great_ , but he helpfully gave a verbal rendition to set the record straight. “I can’t say that I find that very reassuring.”

Their interviewee ducked his head slightly. “I know.”

There was a pregnant pause, which Betty assumed was an awkward one where no one really knew what to say, but after a minute, it became evident that it was just Joaquin preparing himself for what he was going to reveal to them.

“I got a call from FP,” he started, hands finally stilling of any nervous jitters, slipping the switch blade into his back pocket for good.   
“About a clean up. Told me to meet him in the basement of this place.” He slapped the side of the _Whyte Wyrm_. “Which is off-limits. No-one goes down there. Anyway, I show up and there is the kid, dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood, and FP standing over him.”

Kevin’s face had drained quickly to an ashen white, and looked ready to cry at any second. “Oh my God, Joaquin.”

If Betty’s heart had been at the bottom of her stomach beforehand, it had now slipped all the way down to her foot. “You think he killed him? Mr Jones, I mean?”

He shrugged glumly. “Most likely, yeah. I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

Enter Veronica, stage left. “Do you think he might have done it- _if_ he did it,” she corrected herself after catching Betty’s eye.  
“If he was doing someone else’s bidding? We were wondering...well, I was wondering, if possibly he was paid to kill him.”

She inhaled deeply through her nose. “I need to know if you think that my father, Hiram Lodge, paid FP Jones to kill Jason Blossom,” she said, slowly and with a sense of finality, as though she had been trying to say that sentence for a long time, and had finally committed to putting what had been eating away at her mind and conscious for weeks.

Another shrug. “It’s possible. I overheard Mustang and FP talking about some rich guy, I think Mustang was more involved with him, but I don’t know if it was connected.”

“Mustang?” Betty inquired.

“Just another Serpent,” Joaquin filled in. “When Kev and his pal showed up a few weeks ago, he was the one he confronted.”

Kevin nodded slightly. “I remember.”

Veronica perked up immediately. “Do you know where he is? Any chance I could talk to him?”

All she received was a sceptical one over from Joaquin. “I don’t think he-”

“Oh, he will talk to me,” Veronica stated bluntly, shaking a glossy stream of hair over her shoulder, squaring her shoulders. “Believe me, I can be very persuasive.”

Huffing out a sigh, Joaquin relented. “Alright. I’ll give you his address. You can try to get him to talk to you, but don’t be put out if he wont co-operate.”

“You’re not coming?” Kevin tried to keep his tone light. Tried.

“I’ve gotta hit the road. Lay low for a while,” Joaquin said, running a hand through his hair. “Stay out of gangs for a bit, I think. Keep the criminal activity down.”

“Sounds good, but back to why we first came here,” Betty said, hoping that she didn’t sound as eager to return to her questioning as she thought she did. “’Forget the plan’; what’s that about?”

Joaquin let out a breath slowly, obvious contemplating his next words. “It was...something to fall back on in case shit hit the fan. But, I’m guessing that whatever it was, it wasn’t good enough to help anyone.”

That made Betty frown. “Wait, what do you mean ‘whatever it was’? You didn’t know about the plan in question, the exact plan you were asked to forget about?”

Joaquin tilted his head slightly, the side of his mouth scrunching up. “Not exactly, no. Listen, I was told to stash something, but under strict orders not to check the contents. I guess, if I was found out, and didn’t know what was in it, I could feign ignorance of the whole thing.”

Tracing a finger on the inside of her palm in an attempt to get an idea of the bigger picture, Betty summed up. “So, you were asked to stash something, like a bag? Which probably is holding something linking the Serpents to the death, hence why it had to be hidden, but my best guess is that it also has something pointing us towards whoever the real killer is.”

“You still banking on FP being innocent?” Joaquin stuck a fresh cigarette between his teeth. “You that convinced?”

“I have two people who know him well who trust his word. I think, like you, he was just involved in the clean-up.” She stomped out any niggling doubt in the back of her mind. “Where’s this bag stashed? While Veronica and Kevin go to Mustang, I can go find it, pretend I was having a stroll and happened upon it or whatever if I need to turn in anything.”

Joaquin looked at her as though she were made. “In the middle of broad daylight?”

“Fine, I’ll go tonight.”

“No, I don’t think you understand.” Lighting his cigarette, Joaquin took a long drag before continuing. “When I hid it, I went when all you Northsiders were having your Homecoming dance, where most of the town population attended, and were gladly preoccupied. So if you want to go digging further into this bloody nightmare, you will do so at the next big Northside event.”

Betty spread her hands in a surrender “Fine! Fine, we’ll do that. The Jubilee is soon enough, if need be, I’ll go then.”

“Good.” He turned to Kevin, eyes softening considerably. “Could you two please give us a moment?”

They complied, and after a few minutes, and something that sounded like a heated kiss (Betty made a point of keeping her eyesight rigidly on the ground, feeling her face tint red), Kevin tapped the both of them on the shoulders.

“He wrote down the addresses he promised you guys. But that is the last we are gonna see him, for now at least. Also, don’t know if you’re surprised, what with the criminal activity, but we are officially over.” Despite the light tracks that streaked his cheeks, he smiled at them, radiating such a pure, explicitly Kevin warmth. “Guess we just had irreconcilable differences.”

Veronica pulled him into a tight hug, looping Betty into the mix, and they gave a moment of silence to let Kevin cry onto their shoulders in peace, aside from Betty offering a tissue, which was received graciously.

“Just you kids promise me something?”

The three of them broke apart, and tuned back to Kevin’s now ex-boyfrined, who had already started walking away.

“What would that be?” Betty asked.

A hollow of a smile ghosted his face. “Don’t join a gang.”

And with a wave from the distance, Joaquin DeSantos turned away from them to leave Riverdale, and all it’s deep-seeded toxins, for good.

They didn’t see him again.

xxxx

The Ridgemount residence in Riverdale was empty. This wasn’t to say this was a permanent state of being; in fact, within the past few weeks, the place had seen more life within its walls in years.

With people absent at day-care, friend’s houses, at Library’s, no-one heard the doorbell ring.   
Or see the letter land on the Welcome mat, addressed to _Miss Halona ~~Ridegmount~~ Jones_.   
Also in stark crimson, no less.

xxxx

Seeing how Kevin was probably not in the best state, considering, well, _everything_ that had just gone down between them and Joaquin, Betty and Veronica insisted he head home to chill for a bit. With Betty not being able to pick up any possibly incriminating item until a more convenient time anyway, she offered to go with Veronica in Kevin’s place.

“Seriously, guys, I’m fine,” he protested, even though his still puffy, red eyes and drippy nose betrayed him.

“Kev, really, I think you just a need a bit of you-time – at least, until we finish up with this Mustang guy.” Veronica persuaded, with Betty beside her bobbing her head in agreement.   
“Then you bet your cute ass we are going to have a therapy sleepover, at mine, of course, in true style, _a la_ Lodge.”

He smiled softly at that. “Thanks. I could use with one of those.”

“Honestly? I think we all do. And besides, it’s the least I can do,” Veronica assured him, handing him another tissue for his nose.

For sure it was the least she could do; there were about a billion and one other things she felt compelled to do for the two of them, as, due to it becoming more and more blaringly apparent in her mind, she wasn’t as far away from her old, vile self as she thought she was.

Vile Veronica. She remembered that what all the children in her elementary school would snigger about to each other nastily when they knew she could hear them.

Whispers of who she used to be, how she use to act kept creeping back in, seeping through miniscule cracks in her psyche, itching to do what served her interests alone. Paranoia present in every afterthought, scrutinizing her actions, whenever she was snarky unfairly or at things she said which she immediately wished she could put back into her mouth.

But they had been a godsend. All of them, actually, everyone who had taken her in. Betty, Kevin, Josie, Archie, even Jughead and on occasion, Cheryl. They had stuck by her, even when she heavily doubted her actions and worried, they had still been standing next to her, even when she let them down, even when she was wrong. And it meant the world to her. Never before had she ever had any friend go through all notions of hell that she emitted and stayed with her to the end.

She knew it was a big part of why she was so desperate to know if her father had committed one of the worst crimes; she didn’t want to be living in the blithe ignorance of turning a blind eye at rotten and despicable behaviour. Within herself, or others.   
Even if that included her father. Pretty much all of her common sense knew she wasn’t being foolish for looking into it.

“Well,” Betty announced, bringing Veronica out of her ponderings. “While I trust our abilities to deal with anyone, I was going to call Archie into the team. He also knows what the guy looks like, so he can help with identifying him too.”

Archie. Possibly the sweetest and most genuine person the universe could possibly fathom up. And, with whom, her unnamed relationship with was unknown to her dear friend at her side.

“Um,” Veronica started, wincing internally at how to best break the news, because clearly there was no time like the present. “Before you do, I just wanted to let you know...we have been sort of seeing each other.”   
She ducked her head, admittedly in a cowardly move so she didn’t have to watch her best friend’s face after discovering that the boy she had crushed on for most of her life was getting involved with _her._   
“I guess. I don’t really know what to call it. But we’ve, um, kissed a couple times, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, things were just so hectic and-”

“V.” Betty’s voice was a whole lot calmer than she had thought it would be. She raised her head cautiously. With a heart-warming, sweet-as-sugar grin, completely void of any hidden negative emotions, there had been clearly nothing to get worked up about. She felt her breath slowly come back, though she hadn’t even realised it’d ever left.

“I’m happy for you. Really, truly, I promise you. I want the both of you to be happy, and if that’s with each other, then I support that, 100%.”

What did the world do to deserve Betty Cooper?

xxxx

A manicured hand, tastefully adorned with exquisite jewellery embellishments, picked up the cream envelope that lay just inside their hallway. The wax seal was swiftly broken, and it’s contents pulled out.

Deep, olive eyes, heavily lined with dark makeup flew back and forth over the page, taking in the writing once, twice, three times.

“Igor!” Elena Ridgemount beckoned her husband over. “You have to see this.”

_Mr Igor & Mrs Elena Ridgemount_

_Are hereby cordially invited to the Blossom family hosted gala, to mark the end of maple season._

_Location, date and time are enclosed._

_P.S. We hope you find the time to catch up with your daughter at this event. We believe you will have much to discuss._

xxxx

“You guys will not believe the weirdest coincidence,” was Archie’s opening statement when he met Betty and Veronica at the address Joaquin had given them (a sleazy motel, ridden with assorted pieces of garbage to help secure it’s trustworthy state).   
Which made Veronica a little put out, considering how she’d just shared with Betty that the two of them were sort-of seeing each other, she’d hoped for at least a ‘hi’.

“So, you know Halona, yeah? She came round the other day to pick up Jug, and she had this photo on her? I think Cheryl’s Grandma gave it to her, for some reason, but anyway, my mum had that exact photo. Then, she flipped it over and there was an area that was covering up some writing, she scrapped it off, and turns out it was a photo of my mum, Cheryl’s mum and Jug’s dad when they were kids.” He was looking at them expectantly, as if waiting for them to react.

Veronica shared a look with Betty. “Is ...that weird?” she started slowly, trying to gage everyone’s expressions. “I mean, didn’t everyone’s family grow up together in this town?”

Archie shook his head. “Nah, my mum grew up out of state. She moved here when she was in her late teens, and that’s how she met my dad.”

“Well, maybe all three of them grew up out of state, and that was how they knew each other.”

“The Blossoms? Highly unlikely,” Betty pointed out. “I mean, they’re practically ingrained in this place; so much of this town belonged to them at some point. Sweetwater river, the surrounding woods, even some of the less obvious areas, like the drive in land-”

Veronica latched onto the last one. “Wait, what? The Blossom’s used to own that?” A nonchalant tone was hard to pull off, with every fibre of her mind screaming _my father bought that, is he involved, did he murder a kid._

“Yeah, it was made town-owned land maybe like, thirty years ago or something. I think the Blossom’s have been desperate to get it back ever since. That’s why everyone was so riled up about the anonymous buyer.”

“Um, guys?” Archie’s sunshine tone broke through Betty’s history lesson. “Can we get back to why you phoned me here?”

This cued the moment for everyone to remember why they were rendezvousing outside a sleazy motel, ankle deep in rubbish.

“Right! Yes,” Veronica said, fishing for the slip of paper that had Joaquin’s loopy handwriting on (she was pretty sure she was also given strict instructions to burn it afterwards.) “Kevin’s boyfriend- ex-boyfriend, he told us he overheard this guy called Mustang talking about this rich guy? So, we asked for the address, so I can ask about this ‘rich guy’.”

Archie’s brow crinkled, which she found so quintessentially Archie (and adorable, despite the circumstances).  “You think it’s your dad?”

She nodded.

“And who’s this Mustang guy? Do you know what he looks like?”

“ _We_ don’t,” Veronica supplied, with a quick gesture to herself and Betty. “But we believe that you do. When you went to that Serpent bar, apparently the guy we are looking for is the same guy you tried to get into a fight with.”

“Oh...” Archie scratched his chin, with the decency to look a little sheepish. “That guy.”

Betty flashed him a concerned look. “Do you think you’d be able to recognise him?”

He shrugged. “I’m pretty sure, but I guess we’ll find out.”

Together (with Archie taking the lead, which he insisted upon), they made their way up the rickety metal staircase leading to the second floor. Rows of kinda ugly, barren doors, their paint peeling and cracking from years without desperately needed upkeep, all vaguely identical. Aside from one in the middle, which only stood out due to what seemed like a nest of ants crowding around the frame.

Veronica shuddered slightly. The sooner they found this guy, the sooner they could get out of this place.

Archie checked the address. And again. And again. Then sighed.

“I don’t think you guys are gonna like this, but...” He gestured to the bug infested doorframe. “I’m afraid that’s our guy.”

“Fantastic,” Veronica muttered, but mostly to herself. She wasn’t so pathetic that she couldn’t step over some bugs.

But when they reached the door, that’s when things started to set off all sorts of alarm bells in her head.

“Uh...” Betty stuck a finger on the decrepit door and pushed gently. It creaked open far too easily. “Guess he forgot to lock it?”

Then the smell hit.

Veronica tried to fight the overwhelming wave of nausea, as Betty staggered back, hand clasped over mouth looking like she was desperately trying to do the same. “Oh my god, did an animal die in there? Maybe three? Are you sure we have the right door?”

“It’s the right door,” Archie confirmed, quickly slipping his phone out his pocket and switching the flashlight on.

This only shed light onto an even more horrific sight. There were insects crawling _everywhere_ , fat flies swarming together, ants littering the carpet, with a steady, but very obvious trail to the bathroom.

She didn’t know what came over her. She ran inside, following the stream of insects, hardly hearing Betty and Archie’s crying out to her, with a thundering rush of blood flowing through her mind. Every sound seemed muted to her, with just panic set in, chanting, _please don’t be another one, please no_.

The bathroom definitely seemed to be the source of the insect infestation, and the smell, pungent with a sickly stench of disease. When she saw inside, every part of her body froze.

Mustang; who she presumed to be Mustang. Rather, what was left of him.

Sallow, yellow and leathery skin pulled tight and bloated at the highpoints of his body, sagging and collapsing in the low points, blotchy grey fingers where the skin was hanging off the bone. What was left of his hair had been pushed from his scalp, which crinkled unnaturally, patches of rotting skin eaten away. His eyes were almost gone entirely, with hundreds of fat maggots slowly writhing around in the sockets, his lips puffy and blue, with more maggots and flies crawling between them.

Veronica couldn’t help it.

She screamed.

xxxx

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, once again, so so sorry for the unbelievably long wait. I can assure you, however, that it wasn’t a case of ‘I don’t know what happens next :/’, as I have the whole story sketched out from start to finish. I was just stuck for forever on this chapter for some reason.
> 
> At least you can all take solace in knowing that, eventually, this will be concluded. Hopefully the next chapter wont take the same amount of time to produce.
> 
> Also, all of the chapter titles have a common thread in them! First person to comment with the correct answer can request any one-shot, or extended scene, or something, and it can be related to any of the works I’ve done or just within the Riverdale fandom (I couldn’t really think of any better prize, I’m sorry. If anyone has a better idea, do let me know).
> 
> I also have a tumblr (wow fun) which I hardly post on, but I’m always working on various little creative writing things, so if you would like to see more of that, you can follow me at babygecko (yeah, its the exact same name as on here).
> 
> Any comments, thoughts and concerns are welcome x  
> \- Alex


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